Joyeux Noël
by aradian nights
Summary: Jean Kirschtein spends various Christmases with his fellow World War I veterans between 1914 and 1948.
1. Paris, 1946

**PARIS, 1946**

There was snow gathering on street corners, and smoke tainting the air. It billowed from his lips in a wistful cascade, and perched itself upon the thin winter air precariously. A cigarette wilted on his lips. A man had appeared on the snowy sidewalk, youthful by design, but ancient in the eyes. With a hollow blue gaze, and a thin little smile, Armin Arlert greeted his old friend for the first time in years.

Jean was speechless at the sight of him, and smoke filled his mouth to burn away his anxiety. This was a necessary meeting,

"You lucky fucker," Jean joked, his cigarette dangling from his mouth. "You still look barely over the age of consent!"

Armin managed a meager little laugh, though Jean could sense that it was a courtesy more than anything else. Jean had been telling it true— Armin still looked like he was in his twenties, with his baby smooth face and skinny build. His shoulders had gotten broader in the time spent away, and his face was longer and more defined, but with his glasses and loose yellow ponytail, Jean was sure he could convince anyone in the city that he was studying at a local university. The only thing that gave away his age were his tired blue eyes, which echoed a thousand sins and aches, like a murky oasis mirrored and searching. Beneath his eyes were mauve bruises that suggested sleepless nights were as common for Armin Arlert as they were for Jean Kirschtein.

Armin pulled a red scarf above his nose, shivering a little from the cold. Jean didn't want to ask about it, but he couldn't help but stare as Armin rested his hands on the chair across from Jean, his eyes inquiring without ever speaking a word. Jean waved his hand as a quick response, his cigarette burning dangerously low to his lips. _Her scarf,_ Jean thought, his stomach twisting with anxiety. _Why does he have her scarf?_

"How's America?" Jean asked unthinkingly, his mind lingering on the threadbare red accessory. Armin smiled weakly.

"No different than England," Armin said, "or Paris, or Spain, or Germany, or Italy, or Russia, or Ireland, or Scotland, or anywhere else I've lived."

"I think you're missing a few countries there," Jean said, tossing his cigarette into a nearby snow bank. It sizzled, hissing as the ice devoured the flame. "Didn't you, Eren, and Mikasa live in Japan for a little—?"

"Yes." Armin looked away. He sat, tightlipped and implacable. That worried Jean, who had always found Armin to be immensely friendly and approachable. "We lived in Tokyo for about two months, and then traveled a bit before we left for America." He rested his hands on the café table, and he smiled vacantly. "We actually saw Hiroshima, did you know?"

That name made Jean wince. "Warfare just keeps getting nastier, huh?" Jean muttered. Memories of the trenches surfaced, and he swallowed them down like bile clawing up his throat. He had no need for shellshock now. It had been thirty years, and he still had trouble remembering those horrible days. At the very least, there was 1914 to remember fondly.

Armin _laughed_. Jean looked up at him with shock clear in his face, his eyes widening behind his own spectacles. Armin looked almost like he was about to cry, his eyes wide and a tremulous grin plastered on his lips.

"Oh, _Dieu_," Armin gasped. "You have no idea, do you? Jean, do you know what I've been doing for the past four years?"

Jean did not like where this was going. "I don't suppose you were wooing some pretty American girls?" Jean asked weakly. Armin shook his head.

"Nuclear fission," Armin said quietly. His smile was gone, and his eyes were dry, but by the sound of his voice Jean could hear him weeping.

It only took a moment for Jean to realize what Armin was saying. "Oh," Jean whispered, his eyes widening in horror. "_Mon Dieu_…"

Armin was silent for a while. The only time he spoke up was when a pretty waitress came outside to offer him a drink. He ordered a coffee politely, his smile genuine. Jean was left to sit and observe his old friend sadly. For the next five minutes they stared at each other, before Armin spoke again.

"Tell me I'm a monster," Armin said softly. "Go on, Jean. You know you want to. Curse me like you cursed the men who utilized chemical warfare. You know you want to…"

"It's different now, Armin," Jean said. He didn't know if he truly believed it. "As horrible as what happened was, it was inevitable. And it ended the war."

"Maybe." Armin took his coffee in his hands, and sipped at it tentatively. He studied Jean carefully, and then he brushed his fringe out of his eyes. "Enough of that, though. What about you? Why did you stay in Paris?"

Jean had a million reasons. He had had a long, tumultuous life of running away from Paris and then running back to shelter himself from the cruelty of the world. But in truth, most of the terrible things that had ever happened to him had happened while he'd been away from his birthplace. So, logically, when he was done soul searching, he had come to one brilliant conclusion.

"Some of my best— and worst— memories are of France," Jean admitted. "I was born in Paris, and I think I would like to die here too."

Armin laughed, and Jean felt warm and relieved when he found that there was a familiar sweetness to it. He was happy, and it was clear by his laughter. "I wish I had your conviction," Armin said. He looked tired. "I was born in France too, but I can't bring myself to stay here. I don't think I ever considered it my home, not even after the war."

"You and Eren and Mikasa," Jean said. "Did you ever return to Germany?"

Armin shook his head. "Eren did," Armin said quietly. He pressed his lips together, and looked suddenly haunted. "He… he joined the Gestapo, you know."

Jean blinked rapidly. _No, that's not right_, Jean thought. _Eren Jaeger, the bastard, he'd tear himself in two before he fought for Germany again_. "What about Mikasa?" Jean found himself blurting.

Armin smiled knowingly. "She's in America," he said gently. He smiled sadly, and stared down into the contents of his coffee cup. "She and Levi are trying to get their papers in order so they can come to Germany. They want to search the camps for Eren."

"Wait," Jean said, "excuse me? Eren's not—"

"He smuggled Levi to America, along with countless others," Armin said, looking so incredibly happy, and yet so incredibly devastated. Jean thought about Eren Jaeger, and all the hatred that had turned to a deep, indescribably fondness over time. His stomach felt full of ice chips and hot iron nails. "Mikasa would have come with him, but I mean, clearly she wouldn't be able to pass for the staple of the Aryan race." Armin grimaced. "Honestly, if it wasn't for Eren's father being so deeply connected within the government, Eren would have been sent off immediately. He's never looked or acted the part of a good little German soldier."

Jean had to laugh at that. "_Oui_," he said. His straightened up and stared at Armin intensely. Excitement and alarm stirred inside him, toiling his emotions and toying with his thoughts. "Did you say Levi is alive?"

"Does that honestly surprise you?" Armin asked with a steady look.

Jean shook his head. He was smiling without realizing it. "Hange'll pitch a fit when I tell her," Jean said, relaxing in his seat. "How about Erwin Smith? Hear from him lately?"

"He worked with me on the Manhattan Project," Armin said easily. As if talking about it didn't bother him at all, contrary to his previous behavior. "I think he went back to England when it was deemed safe. He said he had some things to take care of there."

"Annie?" Jean asked anxiously.

Armin shook his head. He looked visibly shaken at the mention of the girl's name. "Wouldn't that be nice?" Armin asked bitterly. "To see her again, after all these years?"

"I think I'd punch her," Jean said honestly.

"I think I'd stop you," Armin said, smiling. "But she's still in a coma. It's likely she'll never wake up. Or at least that's what the doctors say."

Jean slumped. He needed another cigarette. "I still think she's a coward," Jean said stubbornly.

Armin shrugged. The winter wind toyed with his ponytail as he took a sip of his coffee, sitting comfortably in spite of the chill. He set his cup down. "Do you keep in touch with any of the others?" Armin asked. "Sasha, maybe? Or Connie?"

"Sasha and Connie are up in Russia, doing Christ knows what," Jean said, pulling another cigarette from his carton. He stuck it between his lips, but did not light it. "They said they'd be back by spring, though. If Russia even has a spring."

"How about Ymir and Historia?" Armin asked eagerly. "I haven't heard from either of them in ages…"

"Ymir died in the Spanish Civil War in 1937," Jean said, staring at Armin. He watched the man's shoulders droop in sorrow. "Historia took up residence at a convent in Barcelona, and the last I heard she'd become a nun."

That made Armin smile. "I might just go to confession, then," he said softly.

"I think it has to be a priest," Jean laughed. He considered it, and scratched his head. His hair had gone prematurely gray years ago, and now it was no surprise that it was thinning out. "Not that I'd even know, to be honest. I don't think I've been to confession since after the war."

"I don't think I was even baptized."

"Heretic," Jean teased. Armin laughed in surprise, as if the insult was some fond nickname from years and years past. "And what of Bertholdt and Reiner?"

Armin smiled, and shrugged. "Dead, maybe," Armin said. "But hopefully they fled somewhere safe. I looked for them in America, but I got caught up with work. Maybe I'll start looking again after Eren's body is recovered."

"You know for sure that Eren is dead?" Jean asked, ignoring the queasy feeling in his stomach. After all these years, it still tore a chunk of him away when a comrade was taken.

"No," Armin said pensively, running his index finger idly along the rim of his cup. "What scares me the most is that… that I might never find him, and that his body is in a mass grave somewhere, like— like—" Armin swallowed. He didn't want to say it. Jean didn't blame him. He felt the phantom pain of an ancient devastation as an upheaval of memories flooded his mind.

"You can say it," Jean said in a thin monotone. "Like Marco?"

Armin looked ashamed. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Sorry. I wasn't even there when he died, I shouldn't have—"

"That was thirty years ago, Armin," Jean said quietly. His cigarette sagged against his lips, and he pulled out an old silver lighter with an old, fond inscription on its face, and he cupped the flame to save it from the icy air. He sucked greedily for smoke, hoping it would numb his old pain and guilt. He offered Armin the carton, but Armin shook his head.

"I don't smoke anymore," he said. He sat with a dull smile on his lips, and his tired eyes laughing. "Or drink."

"_Merde_!" Jean choked, spitting smoke and laughing in disbelief. "How can you live with all of it?"

Armin's smile was small and sad, and he shook his head. "Numbing the pain only makes it worse," Armin admitted. He looked at Jean, and pressed a hand to his heart, raising his chin high. "I'm guilty of a lot of strife in this world, but I accept that. I became a monster a long time ago, and if it is my fate to boil in my sins, then so be it. At the very least I can control my own grief, instead of letting apathy consume me."

Jean had forgotten how truly eloquent Armin was. He sat in silence, a cigarette smoldering on his lips, and ashes trickling toward the ground while smoke ascended to the heavens. Winter air kissed his cheeks. It whistled and moaned, like the long buried memories that haunted his dreams. He heard ghosts in the air, and he felt them drawing him closer with every drag he took on his cigarette.

"I hope you find Eren," Jean mumbled. He didn't know what else to say.

Armin nodded. "I hope so too." He looked stolid then, and his hollow eyes burned with something Jean had not seen in decades. Determination had settled inside Armin's soul, and Jean was sure that the world would tremble at his conviction. In fact, it already had. "I'm going to bring him home. Even if it's his corpse, I don't care. He deserves so much more than what I can give, but I have to try."

"Never thought about settling down?" Jean asked.

"I could ask the same of you," Armin said. He was smiling thinly. "But honestly, married life isn't for any of us. I think we knew that from the very beginning. Maybe that's why we were so close."

"And why we drifted so far…" Jean murmured. He sucked at his cigarette hopelessly. Armin looked at Jean, and there was something unreachable about this man who had once been an enemy, an acquaintance, an anchor, and a best friend. Armin had been born in France, like Jean, but unlike Jean, Armin had an affinity for the air. He could not be fettered to his roots because the past could not contain him. And Jean was jealous. Because even with all of his strength— and oh, Jean knew he had plenty— he could not compare to the strength of Armin, or Eren, or, god, _Mikasa_.

"The world is an enigma," Armin said softly. "But with every friend we make, the world is a little easier to grasp."

"Maybe," Jean said. He rose to his feet, tossing his cigarette once more into the snow. He looked at Armin, and he offered out his hand. Armin grasped it tightly, and stood up as well. They stared at each other, and Jean knew that this was goodbye. "_Joyeux No__ë__l_, _Arm__ï__n Arlert_."

Armin smiled warmly, sadly, timidly, like he had that fateful Christmas Eve of 1914. He looked thirty years younger, and more alive than Jean had seen him in his life. "_Fr__ö__hliche Weinachten, Jean Kirschtein,_" Armin Arlert said, tears freezing on his cheeks.

* * *

_For Angie. Because she's hella sweet. _

_I did have translations for everything, but the list got way too long and time consuming by the time I reached next chapter, so keep google translate ready. If my German or French is off, I'm so sorry! I take Latin!_


	2. Ypres, 1914

**YPRES, 1914**

The Western Front was cold and unforgiving, like a storm of knives ceaselessly digging into his cheeks. He breathed warmth into his hands, rubbing them hopelessly as he pressed his back to the tightly packed earth of the trench. On the ground beside him was a tall Englishman, who had the misfortune to get stuck on the French side without any means to return to his own trench. Unless he planned to brace no man's land.

"This is not how I planned to spend Christmas," Jean muttered to himself, sliding down the trench wall beside the boy. His freckled face was red and splotchy from the cold, but he seemed oblivious to his surroundings. He hugged his gun to his chest, and smiled brightly.

"Neither did I," he admitted, his accent lilting and foreign. "I thought for sure I'd be with my regiment!"

"Ha ha." Jean sighed, and he rested his head back, laying his gun across his lap. "_Merde_, this is hell…"

Marco Bodt shrugged. He looked a little uncertain, but he smiled all the same. Jean didn't understand how he did it. Jean was so exhausted that he could barely stand, let alone _smile_. "How do you say Merry Christmas in French?"

"_Joyeux No__ë__l_," Jean replied.

"Joyoo—"

"_Joyeux,_" Jean corrected. He glanced at Marco, and frowned. "Don't butcher my language, Englishman."

Marco smiled faintly. "I'm er… actually Scottish," he said softly, and his accent was nearly lost on Jean.

"What is the difference?" Jean blinked, speaking without thinking. "You all speak English, no?"

"England isn't Scotland," Marco said. "But I see your confusion."

Jean sat in the trench, miserable and friendless, and he looked at Marco curiously. Miraculously, he had not started a fight yet. Perhaps Jean's English wasn't as good as he thought it was. "Now that you have mentioned it," Jean said, "you do sound different from the other Englishmen."

Marco laughed easily. "Well," he said, "I'd imagine there'd be a wee bit of a difference, aye?"

"Aye," Jean repeated, trying to get a feel for the pronunciation. A boy sat down beside Jean out of nowhere, a very small boy with cropped blonde hair and bored blue eyes. He looked at Jean, a rifle perched between his knees, and Jean, as usual, wondered what his story was. Marco waved at the boy.

"_Bonjour_," Marco said. His accent was terrible enough to make Jean cringe. "_Comment vous appellez-vous_?"

"_Ant__o__n_," the boy said. His voice was very high, and Jean wondered if he was even old enough to be in the military, let alone on the front lines of a war. He turned to Jean, and said in French, "Did you pick this one up in the nut house, Kirschtein?"

"Cute, Leonhardt," Jean retorted. "Fuck a horse."

Anton shrugged. He looked ahead of him, his face a mask of calm. "Haven't you done that already?" asked the boy in utter monotone.

Jean's eyes flashed. His muscles coiled in anger, and he nearly attacked Anton there. "You're a little—!"

He choked on his words when a girl slid suddenly into the trench from above, dropping suddenly like a bear with all the noise she made. The girl had a rifle in her hands, and dirt smeared across her front, and her thick brown hair was in a messy ponytail, but otherwise she looked unhurt. She looked even _elated_.

"Christmas trees!" the girl, their lone female sniper, Sasha Braus, exclaimed. Jean and Anton hushed her in unison.

"What did she say?" Marco asked weakly in English.

"Christmas trees," Jean replied. He studied Sasha's dirty face, and he tilted his head. "You sure you weren't hallucinating, Sasha? What were the ornaments, huh? Potatoes?"

Sasha scowled at him at that, and she jerked her hand out over the trench wall and pointed out over no man's land. "Look for yourself, _connard_," she said snidely.

Jean stood up, and he glance at her as he peeked out over the top of the trench. There were lights dancing across the night, and they were indeed little decorated Christmas trees. The sight warmed Jean's heart, and shook him to the bone. He yearned for the warmth of the_ L__é__gion _now more than ever.

"She's right," Jean breathed.

"What?" Marco asked.

"She's right," Anton translated.

Marco blinked rapidly, and leapt to his feet as well, joining Jean's side and peeking over the top of the trench carefully. Any sniper out in the darkness did not seem to be focused on them, for no one shot. Instead, there was the sound of distant voices that filled the night air instead of gunshots.

"_Oh mon Dieu_," Jean breathed. He hadn't realized he was smiling until he spun to face Sasha. She had her rifle slung over her shoulder, and was pestering Anton for food. "Sasha, get _Capitaine_ Levi."

"Get him yourself," Sasha said.

"Jean," Marco whispered. His face was hazy in the darkness, but his eyes were bright and awed all of a sudden. "Jean, do you hear that?"

"What?" Jean asked. His stomach coiled with apprehension as he focused his ears. "Hear what?"

In the distance, the voices had become clearer. There was melody to the string of muffled words, like a chant. It made Jean uneasy to hear. It was like a distant dirge, a vague lullaby that could not be carried fully over the winter air. _What are they doing over there?_ Jean thought anxiously.

"Sasha," Jean said, "hurry and get the _Capitaine_. This might be a trick by the Germans."

That seemed to persuade her, though she looked a little doubtful. "Since when have Christmas trees been a trick?" she mumbled to herself, trudging off. Marco and Anton watched her go, and they exchanged looks.

"Keep your eyes open," Jean said.

"What?" Marco asked, sounding a little breathless and amused.

"Your eyes," Anton Leonhardt said in English, adjusting his gun. "Keep them open."

"Oh," Marco said. He looked around carefully, hugging his gun to his chest. They stood for a few moments, watching the enemy lines with suspicion setting in. And then, Marco let out a sharp gasp of excitement. "Ah!" he cried, his face splitting into a grin.

"What?" Jean asked. "What is that face?"

"It's—" Marco laughed in disbelief as the words of the German chant grew louder. "Can't you hear it?"

"I hear German words," Jean said sharply. "You understand German now, but no French?"

"I dunno a single word of German," Marco said innocently. His eyes were sparkling with a gleefulness that Jean could not comprehend. "But I can hear the melody. Can't you?"

"Not really," Jean said.

"Naw?" Marco looked surprised. "I ken you've got this song in French. Um…" He shuffled his feet awkwardly, and smiled as he took a deep breath. He listened to the German's sing, and he began to sing along softly in English, "… Round yon Virgin Mother and Child…" His voice wasn't anything spectacular, but Jean was stunned to find he did recognize the melody. Across no man's land, the chant was unveiled in a sudden stroke, and he could understand the German words without any effort. "_Holder Knab' im lockigen Haar, schlafe in himmlischer Ruh_!"

"_Nuit de Paix_?" Jean asked breathlessly, peering over the trench carefully. He saw nothing on the German side but twinkling candlelight.

"Sing," Marco whispered, nudging Jean gently with the butt of his gun. Jean looked at him sharply, and jerked away from him.

"_Tu es fou_? No," Jean said. "Absolutely no, I am no singer, no."

"Naw?" Marco scratched his head. "I'd sing, but am no Frenchman. They know it's the French here."

"_Salaud_," Jean grunted, feeling his composure dropping. "Bastard, we will have those _petit bites_ up our asses so fast—"

"_Nuit de Paix_!" Anton's clear, very high voice sang over the vacant expanse of no man's land. Jean's heart dropped into his stomach when he heard the German words die away at the sound of Anton's sharp, mellifluous voice. "_Sainte Nuit_!"

"_Tu es fou_? Are you crazy?" Jean asked Anton sharply, rounding on him. Jean towered over the boy, who was barely five feet tall. The little blonde looked up at Jean with his bored blue eyes searching his face. "You've given away our—!"

A voice bellowed across the great expanse of land, shattering the silence louder than any bullet ever could. It was the voice of some hearty soul, and it sent a chill down Jean's spine.

"_Alles sch__ä__ft, einsam wacht_!" a German soldier all but screamed, still singing with all of his lungs pressured upon his words. "_Nur das traute hoch heilige Paar!_ _Holder Knab' im lockigen Haar, schlafe in himmlischer Ruh!_"

"You now," Anton said, his voice a sharp command. His eyes were on Jean's face, daring him to sing along. "Or are you scared of music, Jean?"

"Fuck you," Jean said. He gripped his rifled, and took a deep breath. His voice was nothing special, and it was even shakier than Marco's. But he sang anyway, bellowing the words out into the abysmal no man's land by the hand of his pride. "_Nuit de Paix, Sainte Nuit! __Dans l'étable aucun bruit. __Dans le ciel tout repose en paix_!"

When Jean's voice broke, cracking across the night, Anton joined him with his own sweet sounding voice. "_Mais soudain dans l'air pur et frais. __Le brillant coeur des anges_…" Jean's entire body was shaking by that point. They were all crazy. What were they doing, singing Silent Night across the lines of the Western Front?

A chorus of German voices sang back, their voices lifting up toward the sky in a flourish of staccato syllables uttered with undeniable delight. "_**Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh**__!_"

"Damn," Jean breathed, his back slumping against the wall of the trench. He jumped back to attention when Sasha rounded the darkened corner, and Captain Levi watched the three of them with his inscrutable gaze. _He's gonna kick our asses from here to Paris_, Jean thought numbly. Jean saluted without thought alongside Anton.

Levi continued to stare at Jean as the Germans kicked up a chorus of another song, this one, Jean believed, was _O Peuple Fidèle_. O Come All Ye Faithful.

"You fancy the cabaret, Kirschtein?" Levi asked in his usual chilly monotone. His expression was unchanged.

Jean swallowed uncertainly. "No, sir," Jean said. "No, I was just—"

"What about you, Leonhardt?" Levi asked the boy beside Jean suddenly. "Are you in a fucking floorshow right now?"

"No, sir."

"Then why," Captain Levi asked quietly, his eyes slowly sliding to his right to glare suspiciously at the trench wall. German voices were getting louder as more soldiers joined in. "Why did you start one?"

The song from the Germans died down, and for a few moments there was silence. Then, without warning, someone bellowed from the German lines in broken French, "_You fine singer, Frenchmen_!"

Jean glanced at Captain Levi, who was glaring at him steadily. Jean then looked at Sasha, and saw that she looked utterly terrified. She was peeking over the top of the trench when she gasped in surprise. They all grasped their guns in response, but she waved them off and spun to face their Captain. "_Capitaine_!" Sasha gasped, pointing out into no man's land. "A soldier is coming this way!"

"You're joking." Levi blinked at the girl, and he sighed and folded his arms across his chest. "Tell me what he's doing. As brief as possible."

"Just…" Sasha looked suddenly elated. "He's got a Christmas tree, and a white cloth, _Capitaine_!"

"You're definitely joking," Levi said dryly. He looked between them all, and he sighed. "Is he armed?"

"Not that I can see, sir," Sasha said.

"Then let him come." Levi rested his back against the wall, his trimmed black hair sticking to his forehead as he glanced up at the sky. "You brats have been whining about the lack of Christmas celebrations all fucking week. A tree might just shut you up."

Jean smiled in spite of himself. Yes, a tree did sound nice. He turned to Marco, and translated what was going on briefly. The boy's face lit up at the mention of a Christmas tree coming across no man's land. That didn't stop Levi from sticking a rifle in the soldier's face when he approached, resting the miniature Christmas tree down at the edge of the trench.

"Tree," said the soldier in English, a stocky boy with blonde hair and blue eyes and severe features. He was smiling in spite of the gun pointed in his face. He held his hands out, showing that he was unarmed. "_Ja_? Tree? _Ja_?"

"You speak English?" Marco blurted, surprised.

The soldier laughed easily, as if his life was not in tremendous danger. "Little?" He offered a shrug, and another hearty laugh. "_Petit_? You, _Fr__ä__ulein_?" He studied Anton's face curiously. "Speak German?"

"No," Anton said.

The soldier shrugged, and glanced at Levi. He pointed. "You lead?" he asked in a very serious tone. His heavy brow furrowed as Levi stared at him. "_Rittmeister_?" He looked a little uncertain suddenly as he glanced down at the barrel of Levi's gun. "Uh, truce?"

Jean's heart might have stopped as he tried to process what the soldier had said. He turned to Marco, his eyes widening in shock. "Did he say what I think he said?" Jean asked. "That word? It means what I think it means, yes?"

Marco looked just as stunned, and he nodded mutely. Jean stood frozen in his trench, looking up at the blonde soldier as though he was a saving grace. "_Oh mon Dieu_," Jean breathed, blinking rapidly. "No way. Is that even possible? _Capitaine_?"

Levi stood stolidly for a few moments, before he lifted his rifle from the soldier's neck. "You," Levi said, uttering his words very slowly and very clearly, forcing the German boy to understand him. He pointed to the German trenches across the strip of no man's land. "Go back. Bring your commander. Leader." Levi's English was impeccable, and Jean was stunned to find that he had slipped easily into a cockney accent as though it was nothing.

"Lead." The soldier nodded, and grinned. "_Ja_. Truce, _ja_? Yes? _Oui_?"

"Yes," Levi said. "And bring someone along who can understand English and French, for fuck's sake."

The soldier's face screwed up in confusion, but he nodded eagerly, and he turned away, streaking across no man's land like a bat out of hell. Levi hefted himself up out of the trench, and he handed Sasha his gun. He jerked his chin at Jean. "Come on, Kirschtein, you're coming with me."

"Me, sir?" Jean asked weakly. Anton watched him with his careful blue eyes, while Marco watched the exchange in confusion. "What about Leonhardt?"

"I didn't tell Leonhardt to come with me, did I?" Levi's eyes were cold in the darkness, and he stood up, dusting the snow off his uniform. "And more importantly, Leonhardt is my best sniper. I can actually afford to lose you, if I had to."

That left a cold, empty feeling in the pit of Jean's stomach. He took a deep breath. "Good to know, sir," Jean said dryly, pulling himself up out of the trench. He nodded to Marco, who looked surprised. "I will be right back."

"Wait," Marco said. Jean objected when the boy pulled himself out of the trench as well, blinking at Jean with large brown eyes. "Jean, I'm no Frenchmen, and you ken it."

"Ken, what is ken, I do not…?" Jean gritted his teeth, and glanced at Levi. He was watching them with his dark eyes biting at them, telling them to hurry the fuck up.

"It's… uh, know…? You know it?" Marco grimaced. "Sorry, I forgot. But, anyway, if this is a truce then I've gotta go. I have to get back to my regiment. They probably think I'm dead!"

"Oh." Jean had almost forgotten that Marco did not belong in the trenches with Jean. How stupid of him. "Right. Let us go, then."

They made their way slowly to the center of no man's land. Bodies littered the ground, half-buried in the snow, and the stench of rotting corpses became fouler than ever. Jean bit his tongue, and lifted his head, and steeled himself. These were his comrades and his enemies decaying around him. And they all deserved his respect. He couldn't puke just because they smelled of death.

They stopped at the center of no man's land. The German leader was already there, with a small boy at his side. The man was rather… odd looking, with a long face and glasses, messy brown hair pulled back into a stub of a ponytail, and a broad smile that seemed to light up the entire night. The boy at his side looked about Anton's age, maybe older, with yellow hair and large blue eyes, and a warm, sad, timid smile. He was wringing his hands nervously.

Levi watched the Germans warily for a few moments. "_Capitaine_ Levi," he introduced himself, pressing his hand to his chest. He jerked his thumb at Jean. "Jean Kirschtein. Marco Bodt."

The man spoke, and his voice made Jean jump in shock. _She's not a man_, Jean realized in alarm. He was glad he had not vocalized his blunder.

"_Rittmeister_ Zoë Hange," said the woman brightly, pointing to herself. She clapped her hand on the boy's shoulder beside her. "Armin Arlert."

"_Bonjour_," said the boy in an accent so fluid, for a moment Jean had to stare at him. His hair was about the same length as Anton's and almost the same color. Armin Arlert looked every bit as French as he sounded, and it stunned Jean into silence. "I know this is very strange, but… it's Christmas Eve, and we're all tired of fighting. Do you think your troops can find it in your hearts to cease fire?" Armin's eyes were imploring, and he looked at Levi directly, his thick blonde brows furrowing. "Just for tonight?"

Levi considered the boy's words for a few moments. He stared Armin down until the boy averted his gaze, and then he looked up at Hange. "What's your word on this, _Rittmeister_?"

"Hange is fine," the woman said, smiling brightly. "And personally, I love it. I want to see my men happy, and tonight is the perfect night to see smiles on their faces. Come on, you can't tell me you don't feel the same."

"I don't want needless bloodshed," Levi warned the woman. He looked a little irritated at the idea. "The idea you're proposing is a novelty. Who's to say we allow this, and it doesn't end up a stinking pile of shit?"

"Do you have so little faith in your men?" Hange asked, smiling placidly. "Come now, Levi, we're all human here. And we all need a little break, or else we all might crumble soon."

Levi sighed. Jean turned to look at Marco, but all he saw of his newest friend was his back as he ran toward the English trenches. Jean couldn't help but feel a stab of resentment. Marco hadn't even said goodbye.

Armin watched Marco run off with curiosity in his eyes. "Where is he going?" Armin asked Jean.

"He's a Scot," Jean said briskly. He didn't want the stranger to see how hurt he was that his new comrade had returned to his rightful place. "He got lost in a battle, and ended up in our trenches for a few bit."

"I see…" Armin said softly. Marco was gone now, and Jean thought, _Good riddance, the fucker_. He wished he meant it. It had been nice, getting to know someone from an entirely different country. "What is your opinion, then, Jean? Would you be opposed to a truce?"

"How could I be?" Jean asked honestly. "If we all lay down our guns, we can actually relax for once. How can I be opposed to that?"

"You never know," Armin said gently. "There are some strange people in this world."

"Tonight, then," Levi said, staring up at Hange. Hange grinned in response, and offered out her hand. Levi stared for a few moments, looking… uncomfortable. Jean could not understand why, but it was a surprise to say the least. Jean could not claim to know much about his superior officer, except that he could be a little terrifying. Levi extended his hand hesitantly, his eyebrows furrowing.

Before they could shake on their truce, the sound of footsteps crunching snow caused the four soldiers to turn their attention toward the direction of the English trenches. Jean's eyes widened as Marco came hurrying toward them, flanking a very tall man with an incredibly small figure at his side. The man was holding a torch, and the little lantern glowed faintly in the night as he approached.

The man towered over them as he stopped, holding the light up to their faces. His own face was revealed, yellow spilling across his pale blue eyes and neatly parted blonde hair, contouring sharp cheekbones and pursed lips. His eyes roved over Hange, and fell on Levi. Both men watched each other with similarly stoic gazes, and all that could be heard in the chilly night was deep breaths mingling with the wind.

"Levi," the tall Briton addressed the small Frenchman. "I had no idea you were stationed here."

"Well, my fortune has always been shit," Levi said, his English startlingly clear. His adopted accent was perfect, and Jean had to wonder if Levi had actually lived in England to master it. "So it's not much of a surprise. Did you get promoted?"

The tall man nodded. He glanced at Hange, and he gave a salute. Hange responded in kind, smiling at the three of them. "Major General Erwin Smith," he introduced himself. He gestured to his right, "Private Marco Bodt." He held his lantern up to his left, where Jean was stunned to see a very pretty young girl. She was incredibly small, and she looked dainty beside the Major General. But she smiled up at all of them, strands of pale blonde hair falling into her face. "Nurse Christa Renz."

"Hello," Hange greeted. Armin echoed her, his English more accented than his French, but the accent was very thin. "Does everyone know English here?"

"Yes," Levi said. His breath unfurled across the darkened air, and he looked around. "Are you joining in on it, Erwin?"

"A truce for Christmas?" Erwin watched them with an inscrutable stare. "I see no harm in letting the soldiers rest. If not just for the night."

"Then we've settled this?" Levi looked between them all. His eyes rested on Christa Renz, and his eyes narrowed. "Why did you bring a nurse out here?"

"Oh!" gasped the nurse, "I'm fluent in French, German, and English."

"And I am not," Erwin said.

"I thought you were a jack of all trades," Levi said. If his voice wasn't in the usual cold monotone, Jean might have thought that Levi was taunting the Major General.

"Unfortunately, that does not include German," Erwin said. He looked down at Christa, and nodded to her. "The girl also had something she wanted to add to this."

"O-oh." Christa flushed bright red in the lantern light, and her blue eyes grew very wide. She wrung her hands nervously, and Jean saw that there was blood on them. And running down her front, smearing her apron. Jean felt horrified for her. "Yes, well, you see… we have a girl in our care right now. I can't understand a word she says, but she can't stay here. She's very sick. This truce could provide her with a way out of here."

"Wait, what language is she speaking?" Jean asked, staring at the girl confusedly. "You said you were fluent."

"Yes," Christa sighed, looking down. "In English, French, and German. I only know a handful of words in Spanish."

"I know Spanish," Armin Arlert piped up. All eyes turned to him, and he promptly flushed, stuttering a little, "I-I studied it after, um, I finished classical Latin…" He shrunk a little under their scrutiny. "T-two years ago…? I think… Maybe three…" He looked up at the sky thoughtfully.

"You know German, French, English, Spanish, and classical Latin," Levi said, staring at the blonde boy with a blank expression. "What the fuck are you doing on the front lines? You should be holed up somewhere cushy and warm, where you can translate shit and get this war done with."

Armin stared at Levi with his eyes growing so large, they bulged out of his head. In a small voice, he whispered, "I don't know, sir."

"My boy Armin was shipped here from Schipkau," Hange said, grinning as she slung her arm around Armin's shoulders. "Willingly, too. He has got major guts."

"And you?" Erwin Smith asked her, his eyes narrowing. "Where are you from, Miss…?"

"_Rittmeister_ Zoë Hange," Hange said. "And I'm Austrian."

"Austrian?" Jean blurted. "But why are you in charge of German—"

"I'm German too," Hange said, shrugging. "Currently, I'm a German citizen, and my credentials are good enough to get me into my current position, so here I am." She winked at them, and laughed. "So! Shall we get this party started?"

"It's not a party," Levi said.

"Christmas is a celebration," Christa blurted suddenly. She looked at Levi, and then quickly bowed her head. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't—"

"No." Levi waved at her. "It's fine, whatever. My mistake."

"Let's inform the troops, then," Erwin said, looking between them. "And God help us if this leads to bloodshed."

"You men," Hange sighed, rolling her eyes. "And your damned pessimism."

Marco shot Jean a bright smile, and a thumbs up. Jean smiled back. As Levi turned away, Jean moved closer to Marco's side. The Scottish boy laughed a little, and folded his hands. "Sorry I ran off," Marco said. "I just wanted to get the Major General before you finished negotiating."

"No," Jean said. "That was smart thinking. Good on you."

"Excuse me," Christa Renz said to Armin. "I'd hate to bother you, but do you think you can come with me to the patient? She's awake, but I honestly… I can't get much out of her. She just stares at me, and says a word in Spanish, and I'm not sure what to do, if— if i-it's a name, or…" Christa bit her lip, and took a deep breath.

"What's the word?" Armin asked gently.

"Oh, um," Christa said, scratching at her bloody hands. "Guap… _guapa_, maybe…? I'm sorry, I'm not sure if I'm pronouncing it—"

"You are," Armin said. He looked a little pensive, but he smiled anyway. "That word means beautiful, miss."

Christa's eyes widened for a moment, before she composed herself. "Oh," she said. Jean turned away from her when Levi called for him, and he waved at Marco.

"See you in a little, I suppose," Jean said, turning his back to the English and Germans. He ran across the barren field, careful not to trip over corpses as he reached Levi's side. As they walked back to their trench, Levi shoved his hands into his pockets, and raised his chin high. He stared straight ahead as he spoke.

"What do you think of this, Kirschtein?" Levi asked casually. Jean looked at his captain in surprise.

"What do I think?" Jean looked ahead as well, and took a deep breath. "I'm not sure. I'm just glad to have a break, sir."

Snow cracked beneath there feet, and after a few moments, Levi nodded. "At least you're honest," Levi said. He stopped, and looked up at Jean. "But listen to me, Kirschtein. I know this truce idea sounds perfectly _heavenly_ to you— and I can't blame you for that. The concept is like a fairy tale. However." His eyes flashed in the darkness. "That's just the thing. This isn't a fucking fairy tale. Don't let yourself be deluded, Kirschtein. You are going to come out here, and mingle with some Germans, and you might have a few drinks and smoke a few joints, and that's all very sweet." Levi turned his head to the German trenches, where Hange appeared to have returned. The burly blonde soldier from earlier was already out of the trenches, chatting excitedly with Hange. "But while you do that, you need to remember something. This is still a war. Tomorrow morning, you might shoot the guy who let you have a sip of his vodka in the fucking brain. And you can't do anything about it. Because they could kill you tomorrow just as well. You understand me?"

Jean felt as though he'd been punched in the stomach. He stood with Levi's words poisoning his mind and his heart, and he inhaled the bitter winter air sharply.

"Yes, sir," Jean said firmly.

Levi studied his face for a moment, before setting off back to the trenches. Levi reached Anton and Sasha, and jerked his chin at them. "You two," he said, "get up here and talk to some Germans."

Sasha looked up at him, terror in her eyes, while Anton hefted himself up easily, sitting lazily at the edge of the trench and offering Sasha a hand. The lone Christmas tree glittered madly, untouched and languid. Levi jumped down into the trench, and waved back at them. It was a signal to move. Jean felt something heavy in his chest, a weight that would not cease. Because Levi's words had hit him incredibly hard.

_I might kill them tomorrow_, Jean thought, sickened.

"What's going on?" Sasha asked weakly.

"The truce is on," Jean said. He took a deep breath, and turned his back to them. "_Joyeux No__ë__l_."

Sasha wrinkled her nose as she stepped up beside him. Germans were filling up no man's land now, looking awkward as they glanced at each other, some looking wary, others looking excited. "_Merde_," Sasha whispered. "Shit."

"Okay, let's just get this over with," Jean murmured, stepping forward. When he made it halfway across no man's land, Marco joined him.

"Fancy seeing you in a place like this," the Scot joked, his eyes sparkling with joy. "Come here often?"

Jean could have punched the boy, if he didn't like him so much. He smiled at Marco, and shook his head in disbelief. "_Putain_," he said with a chuckle. "You are a stupid one."

Marco laughed in response, and he waved at Anton and Sasha. They nodded at him. As if all at once, the French troops began to ascend from their trenches, confused and cautious, and they stood in a cluster of exhausted faces watching the German soldiers with hollow eyes. The blonde German soldier ran up to Jean, being the first to break the formations. He grinned at Jean, and he grabbed his hand and shook it furiously.

"_Bonjour_, Frenchman," said the soldier, his French very bulky and thick, and the pronunciation barely recognizable. "Reiner Braun."

Jean stared, his hand cramping up, and he nodded vacantly. "Uh," he said, glancing at Marco anxiously. "_Guten tag_? Jean Kirschtein."

Reiner Braun laughed, and he shook his head. "_Nein_," he said. "_Guten abend, ja_?"

"_Abend_?" Jean blinked rapidly. "What's the difference?"

Reiner smiled bemusedly, and he tilted his head. "_Entschuldigen sie_?" he asked. Jean felt his face heat up in embarrassment, because he had no idea what that meant. He looked at Marco, who shrugged in response.

"Anyone know what that means?" Jean asked, looking between Anton and Sasha. They both shook their heads. Jean pressed his lips together, and looked up at the soldier. His brow was furrowed, and he sighed, turning away.

"Bertholdt!" cried Reiner. "_Komm_!" He waited for a very tall soldier to shuffled out of his regiment, and then Reiner looked back at them. "He _gut_. Smart." He tapped his temple with his forefinger.

Bertholdt towered over them, a boy with a long face and nose, and a lanky body that was held up awkwardly, conscientiously. He looked between them, and his eyes rested on Anton. Reiner clapped him on the arm. He said something rapidly in German that Jean simply could not catch, and Bertholdt nodded. He looked between them, and took a deep breath.

In a thickly accented voice, Bertholdt said in French, "He say you cannot, em, comprehend him?"

"That sounds about right," Jean said. He looked at Reiner, and smiled weakly. Levi's words echoed inside Jean's head, fragmenting like ice underfoot. "You were singing, weren't you?"

Bertholdt translated for Jean, and Reiner chuckled, scratching his head. "_Ja_," he said sheepishly. "_Du auch_?"

Bertholdt nodded, and he said, "Yes, you too?"

"_Oui_," Jean said. He gestured beside him. "Me and Anton were."

"Anton?" Bertholdt asked, observing the boy. "You?"

"Anton Leonhardt," the boy said. He looked away, up toward the sky. Bertholdt nodded, and introduced Anton to Reiner, who nodded as well.

"Sasha Braus," Sasha said, offering out her hand warily. Reiner took it, shaking it just as vigorously as he shook Jean's. "You got anything to eat?"

Bertholdt looked at her, his brow furrowing in confusion, and he translated. Reiner quirked an eyebrow, and shook his head. "_Nein_," he said. Sasha looked visibly disappointed. Reiner snapped his fingers, and took a step back. "Ah!" he cried, spinning away. "_Halt_!"

"Em," Bertholdt said, biting his lip. "Stop? Or… hold, um..."

Jean sunk back, and wandered away. His stomach felt full of worms, his heart drumming against his chest. He didn't want to be friendly with these people. He would have to kill them tomorrow. It was like his conscience could not bear to see anyone around him as human, or else he might break down and flee. He was scared of his humanity, and of theirs. He didn't want to kill anyone.

He found himself lost amidst the chattering soldiers, who began to grow very loud, various words flung around in German and French and English. Marco had followed Jean, and they mingled with some other soldiers for about an hour, learning a few curses in German while they were at it. Jean had to be steadied by Marco when one German soldier, a boy named Franz, showed them a photograph of his fiancée, Hannah.

"Pretty," Marco said, smiling genially. Jean could say nothing. He merely nodded. "When? Do you know?"

Franz laughed, and he shrugged. "_Nein_!" he laughed, switching to broken, accented English, "No, no, I no know, but… em… you know." He scratched his head, his eyes bright. "When war over!"

Jean couldn't stick beside Franz anymore. He moved outside of the congregation of soldiers, taking a deep breath of icy winter air, hoping that it might clear his head and his heart. _You could kill him tomorrow_, his mind whispered. He rubbed his face furiously, his throat constricting in terror and sorrow. He stumbled, his boot catching under the leg of a dark, bloated corpse, and Jean let out a sharp cry of alarm, his arms flying out, and he shoved them into the snow, rolling himself into the air in order to avoid crushing the body. He landed flat on his back, snow biting at his bare neck, and he swore softly, "_Merde_…"

He sat up, blinking away the stars in his eyes, and he rubbed his back irritably. It was too dark for him to be wandering so far away from the lanterns, and he could barely see a thing. He rested himself on his knees, and glanced back at the body he stumbled over. His eyes widened as he realized that four eyes were glowering at him in the darkness, two silhouettes hunched over the corpse's head like feral animals protecting their meal.

Jean felt a sensational confusion as the clustered soldiers quieted down, and he heard a familiar little Scottish voice cry out, "_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spirtus Sancti, Amen_."

If Jean squinted, he could see Christa Renz's little face above a makeshift alter. _A mass?_ Jean couldn't fathom it. Now, here, of all places. But even so, it seemed so… natural. Turning to God in such a terrible place. Jean found himself lapsing into a prayer when an arm flew out, steel glinting in the darkness, and Jean nearly toppled over himself as he flinched away from the blade.

"_Geh sterben_!" a boy cried furiously. Jean skittered away from the knife, snow flying as he shielded himself with his arms, twisting away from the German soldier.

"Crazy bastard!" Jean cried, his voice low enough to not disturb the ongoing mass. The knife was very close, and Jean could see it like a beacon in the darkness. "What the hell? Truce! It is a truce!"

"_Halt die schnauze und verpiss dich_!" the boy rasped. His grasp on the knife was shaky, Jean suddenly saw. And as Jean's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see the boy's eyes. They were a bright, furious green, and they were gleaming with unshed tears. Jean lowered his arms in amazement, his heart jumping a little inside his chest. The other soldier sat stolidly by the crazy one's side, his hands resting protectively over the corpse's heart.

"_Je suis d__é__sol__é_," Jean said faintly. The boy's hand jerked, and Jean crouched back, flinging his arms over his head. "I am sorry!" he cried in English this time. "I am sorry, yes? Sorry!"

The boy's arm halted, and it hovered over Jean's chest, quaking a little. The boy's eyes were wide and filled with rage, and he looked like a child. His teeth were bared, and his lips were trembling and blue, and his Jean could see his hand, ruddy and cracked, blood smeared across his fingers. His fingernails appeared to be torn off. Jean looked between the two soldiers, and saw a dark patch amongst the snow, where the ground had been disturbed.

_Oh_, Jean thought, feeling sick to his stomach. _They're trying to bury him_. Jean closed his eyes, and he couldn't move. He was too scared, and too sad. This was horrible. Truly, truly awful.

"Eren," said the other soldier. His voice was very high, and very composed, lilting almost melodically. Jean's eyes snapped open, and he looked at the other soldier in shock. For a moment, the soldier had sounded a bit like a… but no, why would a girl…? Well, there was Sasha, and the German _Rittmeister_, Hange, but… "Eren, _halten_."

The soldier pressed a hand to the boy, Eren's, shaky arm, and gently lowered it. The boy looked down at his bloody fingers, and said nothing. Jean took a deep breath, blinking rapidly. He touched his face, snow clinging to his fingers and biting his cheek as he desperately tried to wake himself up. The ice melted against his skin, and he rubbed his eyes furiously.

"Please," the calm soldier said. He… or… whatever… Jean didn't know anymore. The soldier had a long face, and dark eyes, and Jean could see vaguely Asian features in the darkness. The soldier's hair was cropped short, like everyone's (sans perhaps Sasha, who Levi had allowed to keep her hair long when he recruited her, so long as she kept it clean), and it was dark with a faint sheen to it. "Let us be."

"Oh." Jean nodded quickly, his head bobbing. He couldn't help but stare at the soldier's face, thankful for their interference and placid tone. "Yes. Aye. Sorry. I did not mean to disturb—"

Eren scoffed, his eyes rolled. "Sure," said the boy in thickly accented English. "_Ja._ Whatever."

Jean eyed the boy, and he rose to his feet, dusting himself off. "This is a truce," Jean said. "Whether you like it or not. If you had killed me, it is likely your superior would have punished you."

"Kill you?" Eren's eyes flashed in the darkness. And he gave a sharp, taunting laugh. "You're not worth the effort, _saukerl_!"

"That is why you still have got that knife, right?" Jean's eyes were wide, and he felt crazed with the sudden wave of anger that hit him. "Honestly, you are a fool. Who knows when calm like this will come again, and you use your time to make an enemy of me!"

"We're already enemies," Eren snapped. He raised his knife to Jean's face, but Jean couldn't find it in his heart to be scared. He saw how Eren's companion jolted at the movement, reaching out but afraid to touch him. "Just go. _Geh sterben, affenarsch_!"

Jean was about to retort, but the sound of snow crunching behind him made him freeze. A dark silhouette blurred past him, and Jean's mouth dropped open as Captain Levi grabbed Eren by the wrist and yanked the knife away. The other soldier cried out in alarm, and before the soldier could attack Levi, the Captain dragged Eren to his feet, much to the boy's dismay, and shoved him at the black haired soldier.

"What the fuck do you two think you're doing?" Levi snapped in English. He whirled around to face Jean, who saluted out of fear. "And you, Kirschtein. Why the hell do you always gotta get into fucking trouble, you arrogant little prick?"

Jean swallowed hard, and stared into his superior officer's eyes. "I'm sorry, _Capitaine,_" Jean said.

"Yeah, okay." Levi studied the two German soldiers, and he then looked down at the knife. He twirled in between his fingers. "I know you two speak English. I could hear it when I was coming over here. So speak up."

The black haired soldier glared at Levi with loathing burning inside dark eyes. Eren just sort of looked away, ashamed, and Jean could not believe what a child he was. Eren spun away from them, tearing away from his companion and dropping to the ground, his knees buried in the snow.

"Go away," Eren said. He reached into the hole near the head of the corpse, and Jean watched in horror as Eren began to claw at the earth, his eyes aflame with determination. The other soldier glanced at them, and then hurried to Eren's side, helping him sift the dirt. Jean stared in awe, and then he looked down at Levi. The man was observing them with an impassive expression. But Jean could see his shoulders had gone rigid.

"Why aren't you at the mass, Kirschtein?" Levi asked suddenly in French. His voice was very quiet as he watched the two young German soldiers dig their corpse a grave.

Jean swallowed nervously, and he took a deep breath. "I'm not religious, sir," he said honestly. "I believe in God, of course, but I've never regularly attended mass. It never seemed important."

Levi nodded vacantly. He raised his head, turning it a little. "Arlert!" Jean watched both Germans bolt upright, their eyes widening as their eyes flickering in the darkness. "What about you? Why aren't you at the mass?"

The young blonde soldier who had been with Hange earlier appeared suddenly, his footsteps so light Jean had not heard him approach. He watched his two fellow soldiers sadly, never looking at Levi, and he responded in French, "I was not raised to believe in any god, _Capitaine_."

"Your parents raised you an atheist?" Levi asked. Jean didn't think he sounded very judging, or even rude, which would be expected from Levi. He simply sounded curious.

"No," Armin said. "They raised me to believe in myself, sir. In whatever I choose to believe in."

"Yeah?" Levi shoved his hands into his pocket. "And what's that?"

Armin looked away, and Jean studied the boy's face. He looked sheepish, and nervous, and sad. "Logic, sir," Armin said. "I believe in logic."

"Right," Levi said. "Nice."

"T-thank you?" He was staring at Eren and the other soldier, looking a little desperate. He called out to them, "_Was machst du_?"

Eren sneered at the boy, and called back, "_Wonach sieht's denn aus_?"

"What did he say?" Jean asked Armin.

"Uh, I asked what he was doing," Armin said, "and he said, 'what does it look like?'"

"Ah." Jean nodded as Armin wandered to Eren's side, and bent down. He did not help them dig, but he did look at the corpse. He sighed, sitting on the balls of his feet and resting his chin on his knees.

"Jean," Armin said, never looking away from the corpse. "_Capitaine_ Levi? Why are we fighting?"

Jean couldn't speak. His heart was thudding in his throat, and he shook his head, pressing his lips together to keep himself from screaming and running away, like the coward he felt like he was. He didn't want this. He didn't want to hurt these people. But, tomorrow he might kill them. Or worse, they might kill him.

"All three of you," Levi said suddenly, sharply, in English. They all stared at him, with varying degrees of distrust. "Get up. You're coming with me."

"No we aren't!" Eren shouted, jumping to his feet. Levi stared at him, and then the boy seemed to backpedal, his eyes widening. "Just… just leave us alone to bury our friend!"

"You'll be able to bury your friend," Levi said firmly. "I've got an idea. Just pick your asses up and come with me, or else the truce might be over before you can dig a hole big enough for the body."

Armin stood up, and he looked at his friends, nodding to them. He said something rapidly in German, a lot of words stringing together as he spoke. He gestured down to the body of their fallen comrade, and then to Jean and to Levi. Then, breathlessly, Armin said, "_Bitte vertrau mir_."

Eren stood up, and he nodded to Armin, staring at the boy with a solemn expression. The other soldier stood as well. They both managed to smile at Armin weakly. "_Immer_," Eren said.

Armin seemed to visibly relax, and he turned to face Jean and Levi, nodding fast. "They'll come," Armin said firmly. He took Eren's hand, and then the other soldier's, who was an incredible mystery.

"Good," Levi said. He turned away from them. "Follow me."

"_Capitaine_," Jean said suddenly. "Wait. Why is it that you aren't at the mass?"

Levi blinked up at Jean. He shrugged, and started forward. "I'm Jewish," Levi said simply. "Christmas means nothing to me."

Jean was a little surprised by Levi's reply, but he said nothing in response. He glanced back at the three German soldiers, who were taking one last look at their corpse before following them cautiously to the congregation. Levi marched ahead of them, ducking his head to avoid the chill of the wind, and Jean rubbed his hands together, touching his face to make himself warmer.

"What's your name?" Jean asked the mystery soldier, his curiosity finally getting the better of him.

"Mike," the soldier said. He had a very soft voice, but not a meek one. And Jean still found himself doubting the soldier was a boy. "Mike Ackerman."

"Jean Kirschtein," Jean said, nodding to Mike. He itched to offer his hand, but decided against it. "It is nice to meet you… _merde,_ no, wait, that sounds wrong—"

"I understand," Mike said. "It's fine."

Jean could not say anything else. He stared at Mike, watching light spill onto her face. Jean decided she was most definitely a _girl_. Or God help him. He decided to ignore this, and place all thoughts that didn't revolve around whatever the fuck Levi was doing on the shelf. It wasn't important. This was a fucking war.

Levi tapped Erwin Smith on the shoulder, jerking his chin at the man. Mass continued, and Christa appeared to be a natural at leading a congregation. Jean was positive that this wasn't actually something that would be allowed under normal circumstances, but considering it was wartime, Jean was glad to see someone had their act together.

Erwin had grabbed Hange as well, and both commanders departed from the mass quietly, eyeing Jean, Armin, Mike, and Eren curiously. They kept their distance from the congregation as they began to sing a hymn, and Hange looked at her soldiers curiously. Frost was crawling against the rims of her glasses.

"_Was fehlt ihnen denn, gefreite…_?" Hange asked her soldiers, her eyes widening at their solemn expressions. When they didn't answer, Hange rounded on Levi. "What happened?"

"I found the angry one about to stab Kirschtein," Levi said in French. He paused, and glanced at Eren. In English, he said, "Oi, you. What's your name?"

Eren looked at Levi with a grumpy expression, and his nostrils flared in irritation. Both Armin and Mike grasped his shoulders, pacifying him. "Eren Jaeger," said the boy.

"Jaeger," Levi said. He watched the boy with a hard expression, and then he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, he tried to kill one of my men."

"Eren!" Hange reprimanded. She said something in German very fast, which Jean could not catch, but Jean could tell by Eren's expression that it wasn't anything harsh. The boy was rolling his eyes, and glaring at Jean.

"_Ja, ja_," Eren mumbled, waving offhandedly at his _Rittmeister_. He shuffled anxiously, and scowled at Jean. "Whatever. I overreacted."

"Actually, no," Levi said. Jean jumped in surprise, glancing up at his Captain fearfully. "When I disarmed you, yeah, I thought you were a fucking psycho, Jaeger. But I know it's hard to let a comrade go." Levi stared at the young German boy, whose eyes had gone wide in shock. "I get it. You were defending your dead. Only, if I was in your shoes, it would have gone down differently."

"Yeah?" Eren asked, his eyes meeting Levi's curiously. There was nothing hostile in his gaze anymore, only a childlike awe. "Really, now?"

"Yeah," Levi said, folding his arms across his chest. He glanced up at the sky, and shrugged. "I wouldn't have hesitated."

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Jean swore, staring down at his Captain. He looked at the German trio, and saw that Armin looked just as horrified. Mike looked impassive, though she studied Levi with attentive eyes.

"Quit gaping, Kirschtein," Levi sighed. He turned to Erwin Smith, and he watched the tall man for a moment. "There're too many damn bodies rotting here, Erwin. We'll have an illness spreading soon if we're not careful."

"Ah," Erwin said. He nodded in agreement, though Jean could see his eyes narrowing at Levi's face. Jean found himself unnerved by the man. "Yes. An illness. That would be unfortunate."

It was as if the three adults had an unspoken concurrence, for Hange perked up, her brown eyes glittering in the darkness. "Oh, of course!" Hange gasped. "But it is too dark now, isn't it? Perhaps we could…?"

"Extend the truce." Levi looked between them, his dark eyes flickering fast. "If not just for a few hours. So we can all bury our dead."

"Wait," Eren choked, "are you serious?"

Levi looked at Eren sharply, and the boy was promptly shut up. "Look," Levi said, looking up at Erwin. "I don't like this. War is hard enough without this shitty conscience thing coming back to bite us in the ass when we realize that the people on the other side of that line are just as human as we are. But that doesn't mean that I can't see this working to something productive. We're dancing on fucking graves right now, Erwin."

"I know," Erwin said. "I'm sorry. We'll fix it."

Levi shook his head. He kept shaking it, and Jean took a step aside, wondering why the man was suddenly so very talkative. It was scary. "No we won't," Levi said.

Erwin looked pensive. His eyes were hard in the flickering candlelight, and his shoulders went rigid in response. "We'll do our part," Erwin said. He looked from Levi, to Jean, to Hange, to the three young German soldiers. "All of us. Starting with your fallen comrade. What was his name?"

They all looked suddenly very sullen. Mike pulled up a red scarf above her nose, glancing away sadly. Eren looked ready to lunge at someone, probably Jean, but he said nothing, pressing his lips together thinly. Armin was shaking, his shoulders trembling, and Jean thought he might cry. But no. Armin took a deep breath, mist bursting from his lips, and he raised his chin high.

"Hannes," Armin said. "His name was Hannes. He was from our hometown, and was… was looking out for us…"

"He took a shot for me and Mikas—" Eren choked on his words, and grimaced as if in pain. "Mike."

"I'm very sorry for your loss," Erwin told Eren. He studied Mikasa for a moment, and looked at Hange. "Assemble a list of your missing. There's not much we can do for the bodies but bury them here, but at the very least we might be able to identify some of the dead."

"Sure," Hange said. She smiled, and then stepped toward her soldiers, taking him by the shoulder and smiling. "_Entschuldigung f__ü__r schreiend_, Eren."

Eren leaned into the woman's touch, but said nothing. Jean decided that Hange was the strangest commanding officer he had ever met. The woman turned to Armin, and said in French, "Is he angry with me?"

"No," Armin said. He smiled gently, and he turned his head toward the congregation. "I think mass has ended, though. We should go."

"Ah. Right." Hange patted her soldiers, each of them, on the head, and jerked her chin at Erwin and Levi. "Play nice, you four. I've got some work to do."

Jean wanted to object, but he couldn't raise his voice to Levi. So he simply let the three commanders wander away from them, moving into the darkness in order to get away from the growing crowd of soldiers. Jean took a deep breath, and he glanced back at the three Germans. They were watching him warily, all of them. Even Armin.

"Look," Jean said. "I mean no harm."

"Yeah, sure," Eren snapped, waving a hand. "Whatever."

"Eren," Armin sighed. He turned to face Jean, and he smiled. "I'm sorry, this was all a huge misunderstanding."

"Not really," Eren muttered, kicking up some snow.

"Eren," Armin warned. The boy mimicking him spitefully, and spat a string of rapid curses in German. Armin ignored him, and smiled at Jean. "So… where are you from?"

"Paris," Jean said awkwardly. He didn't want to give this information to any enemy of his, but it was hard not to trust Armin. He had a sweet, genuine face, and it made Jean angry to think that he was a soldier too.

"Oooh, a Parisian," Eren sneered. "Fancy."

"What about you?" Jean asked, his voice just as snide. "Where are you all from?"

"Schipkau," Armin said. He looked a little uncertain, and then he said. "Well, for the most part."

"Yeah?" Jean quirked an eyebrow. "What does that mean?"

"It means that I'm the only native born German in this sideshow, Frenchman," Eren said sharply.

"Oh yeah?" Jean smirked, and looked between them. "So where are you two from originally?"

"Um, I was born in Lille," Armin said softly. Jean glanced at him curiously. Armin shuffled and laughed sheepishly. "Um, France. I was raised there until I was six, and then I moved to Schipkau with my grandfather."

"Ha!" Jean barked a laugh, much to the boy's apparent dismay. "You are French? _Merde_, that is…!"

"Ironic?" Armin offered.

"Yes," Jean said, smiling down at the boy. And then he grimaced, and looked away. "Sad, though. You are fighting your home country."

"I lived in Germany longer than I lived in France," Armin said gently. "And I'm a German citizen. Obviously."

"Obviously," Jean said with another laugh. No wonder he felt so at ease with the boy! In this atmosphere, he was practically kin. "You joined willingly? No draft?"

"We all did," Armin said softly. Eren and Mike looked away, not wanting to meet Jean or Armin's eyes. "Were you drafted?"

"Yes," Jean said. He grimaced at the reminder. "Do you think I would honestly willingly subject myself to this… this… em…"

"Hell?" Armin offered.

Jean nodded. "Yes," he said. "Hell." He looked at Mike, and stared at her for a few moments. She wasn't looking at Jean, but her body was rigid, as if she knew what he was going to ask. "How about you, Mike? Where are you from?"

Eren said something suddenly to her in German, but she shook her head. She looked at Jean, and tilted her head. "San Francisco," she said in her smooth, empty, quiet voice. It explained why she more or less lacked an accent when she spoke English.

"You're American?" Jean blurted in surprise. She nodded, and Eren whispered something to her, and she shook her head again. "Christ, woman, what are you doing fighting in this war?"

"Woman?" Mike echoed. Armin winced, and Eren looked at Jean, half furious and half terrified. Jean wanted to swallow his tongue, and maybe himself along with it. "How did you know?"

Jean didn't know what to say. His face was heating up, burning against the winter air, and he stammered, "Y-your… face. I d-do not…"

"Whatever," Eren yawned. "He ain't telling anyone. Besides, Hange's a girl, and no one gripes to her none."

"Hange also has connections in the government, which we _don't_," Armin reminded.

"There's a girl in your regiment," Mike said suddenly. Jean nodded vacantly, dazedly, and he took a deep breath to calm himself.

"Y-yes," he said. "Aye. Um, Sasha—"

"No, not that one," Mike said. "One like me. She's pretending to be a boy. Armin saw her. Right, Armin?"

Armin nodded, and looked away. "I bumped into her when I left Ymir. She's really small, with short blonde hair, and her eyes looked almost… bored. They were really pretty though."

Jean's eyes widened. "_Anton_?" he choked. He had to digest this for a few moments, his mind trailing back to the various encounters Jean had with Anton Leonhardt. The boy had always been very distant, and very hard to talk to. Jean had always thought that Anton's high voice had been a result of his young age, but now Jean realized he was wrong. Oh, _fuck_, what even…

"Maybe?" Armin shrugged. "I didn't actually speak to her—"

"Jean!" a lilting voice cried, the thick Scottish accent hitting Jean's ears sharply. Marco grinned as he stopped beside him, nearly plowing into him breathlessly. "Why weren't you at the mass?"

"I was busy," Jean said. He looked at the three Germans, and he sighed, reluctantly gesturing to Marco. "This is Marco Bodt."

"We've met," Armin chirped. He smiled, and offered out his hand. Marco took it eagerly, and he looked between the three of them.

"Well it's nice to meet all of you!" Marco gasped. "You all speak English, aye?"

"Yeah," Eren said, looking up at Marco warily. "You English?"

"Scottish," Marco said, smiling at him. He shoved his hands in his pocket, and a girl appeared beside him. It was Christa, looking a little frantic. She was staring at Armin.

"Excuse me," she said, "Armin, did you move Ymir?"

Armin stared at her for a few moments. "What?" he asked, stunned. "No. Why? She's not gone, is she?"

Christa looked horrified, and she looked around her rapidly, moving her body as she twisted her fingers around her skirt, her hair slipping from her white veil. "Oh," she whispered, her eyes growing fearful. "Oh no… what do I do…? Where could she have gone…?"

"I'll help you find her," Armin said, moving to the small nurse's side. "When I was talking to her, she seemed in well enough shape to walk, so she might have decided to leave—"

"She's in no shape to leave!" Christa gasped, her body curling in fear and irritation. "She's very sick! Doesn't she know that?"

"I don't think she understands," Armin said. He smiled at his friends, and nodded to them. "_Bin gleich wieder da_."

Eren nodded in response, and the boy disappeared with the nurse, asking her rapid questions in English, which Jean found hard to understand. Marco then decided to strike up a conversation with Eren, who seemed surprised at the Scot's friendliness. Jean crept closer to Mike, and he observed the girl curiously.

"So," he said. "Uh, what is your real name?"

Mike shrugged. She stared ahead of her as the Christmas celebrations continued. Jean spotted Sasha laughing rather loudly beside Reiner and Bertholdt, echoing their German words, which Jean could only assume were curses. They were all drinking from a bottle, and they were clearly drunk. _I could go for a drink right now_, Jean thought. _Or a joint_. But he'd used up all his cigarette rations for the week already.

"Mikasa," the girl said. She looked at Eren, who was now grinning and laughing at something Marco had said.

Jean smiled at her. "That's pretty," he told her. She shrugged, her face utterly blank. "So… what is it like in America?"

Mikasa Ackerman gave another tiny shrug. She didn't look particularly interested in speaking about herself. "Busy," Mikasa said distantly. "I don't know. It's different."

"I would imagine…" Jean said, giving a nervous little laugh. "Um, if it is… if it all right that I ask… why did you join the army?"

Mikasa closed her eyes. She shook her head, and stared at Eren for a few moments. She looked up at Jean, and she said, "I have not family left in Germany."

Jean didn't know exactly what he meant by that, but by her said eyes, Jean could guess. "I am sorry…" he said softly. She shrugged in that apathetic way of hers, and said nothing more.

It was growing late now, and though Jean finally did join Sasha with Reiner and Bertholdt, giving into the bitter temptation to let these enemies in, to laugh at their crude jokes and terrible English, to exchange words in French with their German ones, to drink with them and speak with them, learn their names and ages, where they grew up, and where they wanted to go.

The next morning Jean woke up between Marco Bodt and Reiner Braun in a German trench, an empty bottle in his lap, and a slight headache. He grimaced, and set the bottle aside, rubbing his face furiously was grimy fingers. The sun was only just breaking across the sky, shining faint rays of white light into the depths of the trench. Marco was snoozing obliviously against Jean's shoulder, and Reiner was sleeping easily upright, his head resting back against the tightly packed dirt wall, his arms crossed over his chest. Surprisingly, Bertholdt was nowhere to be found.

The familiar, tantalizing scent of cigarette smoke wafted toward him, and Jean jerked upright. Across from him, sitting lazily against the opposite dirt wall, was a girl. She was wearing rags, a pair of threadbare trousers under what might have been a child's dress, a faded, dirty black frock that ended above her knees. She was barefoot, her dark feet cracked and bloody, dirt licking up to her ankles. She was smirking at him, a cigarette dangling between her blue lips, and choppy brown hair resting in grimy wisps about her jaw and neck. Her skin was dark, but there was an unnatural pallor to her face, making her look a little wane and sickly.

She jerked her chin at him in greeting. "_Luces como mierda_!" she crowed, her voice cracking like a bullet across the chilly winter morning. Jean had no idea what she was saying, but the way she had said it sounded like a greeting. He nodded vacantly at her.

"Okay," he said slowly, confusedly. His mind was muddy from sleep and a hangover. He looked around, and then pressed his lips together. They were cracked and dry, cold and icy. He stared at her cigarette with envy burning in his chest. "Hey, do you have more of those?"

She quirked an eyebrow, and tilted her head bemusedly. She had no idea what he had said. Jean sighed, and he pointed to her cigarette. She stared at him, and then down at the cigarette. She pulled it out of her mouth, and pointed, saying, "_Esta_?"

Jean nodded eagerly. She studied him for a moment, and shrugged. She reached over to Reiner, her fingers expertly slipping under his folded arms, and she withdrew a little package of cigarettes and a packet of matches. She offered them out to Jean, who took them eagerly.

The girl said something in Spanish that Jean couldn't even begin to understand, and he stuck a joint between his lips. "Honey, I have no clue what the fuck you're talking about," Jean told her, striking a match on the wall behind him. He cupped the flame, holding it close to him to defend it against the bitter winter wind, and he rubbed the fire against the end of his cigarette. He sucked at the joint greedily until it lit, and filled his mouth with the acrid, soothing taste of smoke.

The girl shrugged again, and pulled her own joint from her lips, blowing smoke rings into the air. Jean smirked, and he took a drag, mimicking her. They sat like that for a while, minutes ticking by and cigarettes dwindling. They began to talk to each other meagerly, throwing words back and forth without actually understanding them.

"Hey," he said suddenly, the sun finally spilling a great deal of sunlight into the dim trench. "_Joyeux No__ë__l_. _Je m'appelle_ Jean."

The girl's cigarette was long gone, but she smirked anyway. She appeared to know what he was saying. "_Hola_," she said. "_Eh… Feliz Navidad? Me llamo_ Ymir."

"_Excusez-moi_?" Jean blinked at her. "Ymir?"

She stared at him placidly, and she smirked, his freckles twisting around her lips. "_Si_," she said.

He was hit with a sudden revelation. "Christa and Armin were looking for you!" he gasped. Ymir stared at him, and she looked away, the names obviously translating what he had said. "You're hurt, aren't you? Or…" He studied her pale face, and he felt a little apprehensive. "Sick?"

Ymir stared at him blankly, and Jean knew she had no idea what he was saying. She opened her mouth, but then a hand flew out from above, smacking Jean's cheek. "Get off your ass, Kirschtein."

Jean wanted to groan. Levi was kneeling above the trench, peering down at them with his dark eyes tired. He didn't seem to be very happy, but then again, it was very hard to tell with Levi. Jean stood up upon instinct, helping Marco to his feet, and Reiner awoke with a start. He spotted Ymir, and he said something in German confusedly. Ymir responded with something in Spanish, and Jean's headache got worse.

"Morning, soldiers," Hange chirped. She had a spade in her hands, and a strange sort of glee in her eyes. "And Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas," they echoed in varying degrees of enthusiasm and accents. Ymir had hefted herself out of the trench as well, stepping into the snow curiously. Levi noticed her bare feet, and grabbed her by the arm.

"_Oye_!" the girl cried, twisting away from Levi. She moved to kick him, but Levi was much too fast for her. He twisted her arm, causing her face to twist in pain, and he jerked her forward.

"Arlert!" Levi called. "I think you were looking for this one!"

Jean peered behind Hange, and saw Armin a few yards away, working with Eren and Mikasa to bury the corpse of their friend, Hannes. They all had spades in hand, and were working against the cruel winds, and the tough earth, shifting snow and dirt. Armin spotted Ymir, and Jean heard him shout something. Jean wasn't even sure what language it was.

"Ymir!" Armin gasped, rushing toward them with his spade in hand. He reached them, and he looked up at the freckled Spaniard with wide eyes. "_Que demonios_!"

Her face scrunched up in distaste. She said with a sneer, "_Callate, hostias_!"

"Arlert," Levi said, shoving Ymir toward the boy. "Get this girl back to Renz, for fuck's sake. And get her some shoes before we have to cut off her toes."

Armin grimaced and took Ymir by the arm. She shoved him hard, but he did not let go. "_Oui, Capitaine_," Armin said.

When he was gone, Levi wasted no time in distributing spades, and telling them to go dig some fucking holes. Jean obeyed, not knowing what else to do. The ground was harder than diamond, or at least it felt that way. Jean stuck close to Marco, driving his spade against the earth in hopes to loosen the dirt, and eventually he managed to break the icy barrier, but holy shit. It was difficult. By the time they made a hole big enough to fit a body into, Jean's entire body felt like jelly. His arms were screaming in pain, and his fingers were numb, but blistered, and there were splinters in his palms. He was breathing heavily, using his shovel as a crutch. Marco looked to be in better condition, and he watched Jean with sad eyes.

They spent the morning this way. Jean was near tears at his third hole, and by the fifth he was resting his head against Marco's shoulder, swearing up a storm in French. Marco merely smiled, and told him that they were doing a good thing. Jean knew it was true, and he wished he could quit complaining, but it was difficult. It was Christmas, and this was a truce. Weren't they supposed to relax?

Once, when Jean and Marco were digging a hole near Levi, the Captain paused, stabbing his spade into the earth. "Kirschtein," the small man said, resting his body against the shaft of the shovel, and staring at the man shaped hole he had created. "You're likely to outlive me, or at least you will if there's a god. When they bury me, make sure I'm sitting up."

Jean stared at his superior officer, and uttered a clipped, "Yes, sir," without even realizing it. When the words actually digested, Jean found himself gaping at the man. "But… why, exactly?"

Levi shrugged. He grasped his spade, and began to shift the earth beneath him. "If I'm sitting up," Levi said, "then when Death greets me, I'll at least have some dignity when I deliver my final '_fuck you_'."

Jean choked on his laughter, staring at Levi in bewilderment. The man took no notice, and continued to dig.

Afterwards, when they were finally given a break, Jean and Marco rested on a table that one of the Germans had brought out from their trenches. Anton wandered by, and then spotted them. She stared for a few moments, and then sat down very carefully at the corner of the table. Jean stared at her, and he was beginning to see the femininity in her features. How had he not realized it before?

"Oi," Jean said. He spoke in French. "Anton. What's your real name?"

The girl went rigid. She stared ahead of her, her face a mask, and but her body language telling him everything. She looked up at the sky, her cropped blonde hair curling around her forehead, and Jean could see her eyes. They were the same bored blue they usually were.

"Who told you?" Anton asked. She did not look at him.

Jean bristled, feeling a little insulted. "No one—"

"Don't lie," Anton said, looking at him sharply. "You're too stupid to figure it out yourself, Jean."

He felt his ego take a hit at that. He _had_ been too stupid to figure it out himself. He'd known Anton for _months_, and yet Armin Arlert had figured Anton out just by giving the girl a glance.

Jean looked around them, at the soldiers streaming through the newly cleared no man's land. Christmas trees were littering the space, and not even the rigorous manual labor had dampened the soldiers' holiday spirits. Jean had to smile at that.

"Him," Jean said, jerking his chin at Armin as he met up with Christa not too far away. Ymir was at his side, bundled in Armin's coat, and wearing someone's spare boots.

"Him?" Anton observed the boy, her face unreadable. "How did he find out?"

"I don't know." Jean shook his head. "He just… he just knew, I don't know."

"Huh." Anton jumped off the table, and shoved her hands in her pocket. She began to walk forward, towards Armin. "It's… Annie."

Jean stared at her as she walked away, and he slumped a little. Then, he cupped his hands and shouted after her. "It's pretty, you know!"

Annie Leonhardt responded with her middle finger flicked up at him. Jean laughed a little, and turned back to Marco, who looked wide eyed and utterly confused. Jean laughed a little more, feeling lighter than he had in a while. "Happy Christmas, Marco," Jean said, smiling at his friend.

Marco beamed at him. "_Joyeux No__ë__l_, Jean!"

Later, after playing a rather exciting Game of futbol (the Germans had won 10-6, on account of having Mikasa, who had razed the fucking field), Jean was gathered in a circle with his new friends, drinking from a bottle of liquor that was being passed around. They were all telling stories about their hometowns, and how they'd grown up, and exchanging little bits of their languages, and speaking about their families.

"What about you, Christa?" Armin asked. "You're Scottish, right?"

"Aye," Christa said, smiling gently. Ymir was beside her, looking distant and bored. The girl had admitted to everyone that she was a runaway from an orphanage in Madrid, and she'd ended up on the Western Front by mistake. Armin had translated this tentatively, and Christa had immediately begun to apologize to the girl for the awful circumstances. Ymir had merely stared at her. "I was… actually born in England, but my… my parents sent me to school in… in Glasgow. In a Seminary."

"I'm from Glesga too!" Marco gasped, his accent fumbling on the name of his hometown. Christa looked at him, and she smiled brightly. "Funny how we haven't run into each other until now, eh?"

"I never got out much," Christa admitted. "Father Nick never permitted it. He diddinae even that I enlisted to be a nurse. He was dead angry, though. Gave me a skelping, and told me I was a radge little girl." She laughed, and the rest of them stared at her confusedly except Marco, who looked horrified. Even Armin looked confused.

"Sorry," Armin said, "but… I don't understand some of those words."

Sasha declared that she had no idea what anyone was saying. Reiner echoed her in German, and Eren said something, likely giving him a quick translation. Jean did the same for Sasha, though he paused, and looked at Christa. "What is a skelping?" he asked curiously.

"Oh," Christa's eyes widened. "Um…"

"It's a beatin'," Marco said sharply, looking at Christa with large eyes. "Christa, did the priest beat you loads?"

"Naw!" Christa waved her hands quickly, her face flushing in embarrassment. "Naw, it wasn't like that. Not all the time—"

"Christa…" Armin said softly. He looked just as horrified now, and he embraced his knees, shaking his head. "That's awful."

"It really wasn't bad," Christa whispered, looking around at them. "Honest, I didin' think much of it—"

"What does radge mean, then?" Jean asked, looking at Marco.

"Crazy," Marco whispered.

Jean wrinkled his nose. "What an awful person…" Jean muttered. Christa shook her head, and kept shaking it until they moved off the subject. Sasha began to talk about her country town, and how she grew up hunting, and that was why she was such a great shot. Jean chose to translate for her to let Armin translate her words into German for Reiner, and then Spanish for Ymir. Sasha had been recruited by Captain Levi a year earlier, after she'd been caught stealing from military stores. After she'd demonstrated her skill with a gun, Levi had personally made sure that she was placed in his regiment. It was uncommon for women to slip into the front lines, but with Levi's help Sasha had managed it. Jean looked at Annie as he translated.

"What about you?" Jean asked her. "Where did you grow up, Anton?"

She stared down at her hands for a few moments. Then she looked at him. "Germany," she said.

Jean stared at her, as did the rest of them. Reiner and Bertholdt eyed her with surprise as the exchange was translated. When Armin finished the translation, he said, "You're like me then."

"I guess." Annie shrugged. She looked up at the sky, watching stars appear rapidly. She sighed, and looked back at all of them, her face completely blank. "Does it really matter?"

"I would be sad," Jean said, "if I had to fight my own countrymen."

"You're fighting Armin," Annie said sharply. "He's French. But does that matter? No. Because he's fighting for Germany, and you're fighting for France."

"It doesn't matter where we're from," Eren said suddenly. Jean looked at him in shock. "We're all in hell."

No one had anything to add to that. Sasha curled up under her coat, taking a long swig of the liquor when it was passed to her. They all sat sadly, the revelation that they would be back to fighting each other tomorrow hitting them hard. Christa buried her face in her arms, not crying, but merely covering her face so she would not have to look at all of them anymore. Jean could sense her distress. He could tell that all she wanted to do was help them, but there was no way.

"Hey," Jean said. An idea had come to his mind. He looked at them all, and he smiled weakly. "Um, so… my mother, she owns a um… I don't know the word in English. _Auberge_."

"Inn," Armin said gently.

Jean nodded, and rubbed his neck awkwardly. "Aye, inn. It is a little place in Paris, and… well, this war can't last forever, can it?" Jean looked around at their faces. Armin translated slowly, and it caught the attention of the few among them who did not know English. "Anyway, it is called _L__é__gion du __É__claireurs_. And you all are welcome to free room and board… you know, whenever the war is over… and if you are in Paris…"

"_L__é__gion du __É__claireurs_?" Armin echoed, smiling at Jean. "Why is it called that?"

"Do not ask me," Jean said, shrugging. "I did not name it… I think it may be some historical thing, though."

"Thank you, Jean," Christa said, her eyes wide and bright. "That's very sweet."

Jean scratched his head, and he shrugged. His new friends all gave promises that, so long as they were not dead by the war's end, they would come to _L__é__gion du __É__claireurs_ to find him. That thought, that hope for the future, kept him content. Even the next morning, when the agonizingly inevitable repercussions of their truce came to fruition. For three hours after dawn, no shots were fired. Jean sat in his trench beside Annie and Sasha, hugging his gun to his chest. They both seemed just as horror-stricken as he was.

_No, it's worse for them_, Jean thought. _They're snipers. They see their targets when they hit them. I just shoot blindly and pray I didn't hit anyone_.

Around noon the day after Christmas, the first shot rang out through the bitter winter air. And the war began again.

* * *

_Merry Christmas, Angie! This entire chapter is, of course, heavily inspired by the 2005 film Joyeux Noel. Which is based on the real life Christmas Truce of 1914. It's a great movie! I actually just watched it again with my dad, because I got it for Christmas, and I was picking out all the differences and similarities between this chapter and the film._


	3. Paris, 1923

**PARIS 1923**

The bar was bustling with people, with men and women looking for an escape. The fireplace from when the _L__é__gion du __É__claireurs _was still an inn was alive, filling the room with a great deal of warmth. There was a Christmas tree in the corner of the room, and a menorah resting on the bar, both decorations alight and twinkling in the warmth of the bar. The bar wasn't unlike any other Parisian pub, except for perhaps its atmosphere. The _L__é__gion_ was generally a place of refuge for societal outcasts. The racially and culturally diverse, the humble and the wicked, the meek and the lost, the crippled and the pariahs. These were the people Jean Kirschtein welcomed into his childhood home. Because he could.

He was dancing with Sasha and Connie, moving between them with his fingers stuck inside their hands, and they twisted with the thrum of the music. Sasha had not embraced the fashion fad in which women sported a boyish cut, but instead kept her brown hair long and pinned firmly back, except for her bangs which curled around her cheeks. Connie was growing his hair out, trying to give himself a look different from that of a soldier, but it was still too short for him to comb it back. Though Sasha didn't sport her hair in a short fashion, she did enjoy wearing short dresses and long beads, allowing her loose attire to swing about her as she danced. Connie and Jean passed Sasha between them, taking turns to perform the steps of a new dance called the Charleston.

"Okay, okay," Jean laughed, twirling Sasha back to Connie. "I'm done!"

"Aw!" Sasha glanced at him through her bouncing brown curls, and she laughed as well. "Party pooper!"

"I knew it," Connie said in English. He was very bad at French, and even worse at German, so he stuck with his native tongue for the most part. Since moving to Paris, though, he'd gotten better. But not much. "You're admitting defeat to my superior moves!"

"Ha ha," Jean said, rolling his eyes. "Right, sure. Your so called moves could kill a horse, Connie."

"You'd know!" both Connie and Sasha cried in unison. Jean scowled at them.

"_Va te faire foutre_!" he snapped at them. Connie giggled, and Sasha snorted in response, both never ceasing their dancing.

"_Merci mais non merci, tu es con_!" Connie responded in the same tone, though he wore a wide, shit eating grin. His pronunciation wasn't too horrible, but it could use some work. Jean rolled his eyes, and left them both on the dance floor. He passed by the piano, and paused to watch Eren play. Jean remembered laughing at him when he had declared he could play the piano. That had been very early in the post-war gloom, and Jean had looked at Eren Jaeger, the orphaned German soldier boy sitting on the barstool closest to the door, and he had not believed it.

"_Yeah_?" Jean had said, plopping down beside the boy who felt around for his glass of whiskey blindly. The bandages were still firmly around his eyes, and the doctors claimed they could not say whether or not Eren's sight would ever return. "_Can you really, Eren? Why don't you go over to the piano and prove it_."

Eren had bristled at his incredulous tone, and his words. Because Eren had no idea where the piano was in the room. He had sat at the bar for a few minutes, anger building up inside him, and Jean had seen it crack across his face as he jumped down from the barstool and stood for a moment shakily, his arms extended as he felt the air. Mikasa had come rushing to his side, like the doting girl she was, her black bob curling across her cheeks, but Eren had shoved her away.

"_I can find the damn piano by myself_," Eren had declared. Armin had stood up as well, and Annie had watched with mild interest from her place, lounging beside him in a booth near the unlit fireplace. After moving very slowly, the room growing quiet to watch the specter of the blind boy walking. After about three minutes, he'd fumbled and stumbled right into the grand piano, his hands collapsing against the ebony lid. He'd ran his hands across it, and then as if by muscle memory, the boy yanked the lid up, and grasped the lid prop, easily setting it upward.

It had taken Eren a little bit to sit down. Jean remembered his concern, the guilt that gnawed at him when he'd realized he meant Eren Jaeger no real harm. After all, Jean owed Eren a lot. Jean was still surprised that Eren did not blame his loss of sight on him. If Jean had been in Eren's place, he would hate Jean with everything in him. But that was not the case. Eren had a lot of hatred, but it was not toward Jean. It was toward his homeland. Which awed and terrified Jean more than he could ever say.

Eren had taken precious minutes to gingerly run his fingers across the ebony and ivory keys, his fingertips reading the teeth of the piano as though they were eighty eight enigmatic words, each with their own bizarre meaning, and pronunciation, and varying inflections. Eren had seemed to relax after his feet found the pedals, and then his fingers had stopped meandering across the face of the keyboard, resting tentatively at the center of the piano. On Middle C.

Eren had played a song unfamiliar to Jean. It had been a cheery tune, like that out of a romantic moving picture, a melody that rang with optimism and hope. It was fast paced, and Jean was shocked at the way Eren's fingers moved expertly across the keys, never once fumbling as they tended to when he grasped at simple things like glasses or utensils. Eren didn't need to see the piano to know the keyboard, and it was clear from the way he played that he had been doing so for a very long time. The song seemed to be an echo of something, like a memory, and very suddenly the tune became melancholy. The high notes broke, and softened, turning low and somber as Eren slowed his melody, letting the tune drift off unfinished.

Eren had then stood up, and had allowed Armin and Mikasa to help him upstairs. Jean had pretended not to see him cry, but it had been inevitable.

Jean had found out later from Armin that Eren's mother had been a music teacher, and that Eren had never really wanted to learn how to play any instrument because he had been untalented as a child. He had often gotten angry at his mother for forcing him into lessons when he was clearly not suited for the violin, or the flute, or the guitar. Piano had been the one thing Eren _had_ enjoyed, but only because his mother had taught him through duets.

The song Eren had played had been a creation of Eren's mother's, which he had heard many times, played many times, and had never gotten to hear finished.

Now, Eren played jazz music with ease, his eyes rising to meet Jean's. He had gotten his sight back, though it was still only just beginning to heal. There were scars around his eyes from where the chemicals had burned him. Jean wasn't sure what had been in the air that day. He didn't want to know. But Eren took his injury with an inexplicable cheeriness. He even made jokes at his own expense, which was so unnerving, because sometimes it made Jean think of—

Well, there really was no comparison between Eren and Marco. There were no similarities. Except, perhaps their unbelievable lack of self-worth.

"Need something?" Eren asked, never faltering in his song. His fingers danced subconsciously, like a second nature.

"Nope," Jean said. "Just thought I'd remind you that your break started just about ten minutes ago."

Eren rolled his eyes. "_Geh sterben_, Jean," Eren told him dully. He wasn't a boy anymore— he was twenty four years old, and looked like a man, but Jean couldn't help but see him as one. He couldn't help but see all his friends as children. Because that was what they had been when they had met. Children.

"Not yet, Eren," Jean said with a bright grin. "Not yet."

Then Jean made his way to the bar, where Hange was sticking candles into the cake Historia had made. Her one brown eye sparkled behind her glasses, and she grinned at him as he leaned over, peering at the icing curiously. Written in a careful cursive hand, green dyed icing looped into the words, _Joyeux anniversaire, Levi!_

This was not the first time they were celebrating Levi's birthday, and it certainly would not be the last. Though the man hated attention, it was inevitable for his birth to be celebrated. They all had grown to respect the man as a friend, and there was no way around his birthday. It was a universal fucking holiday, for Christ's sake!

"Hey, there!" Hange said, winking her left eye. Her right eye was covered by a dark patch, scars crawling from beneath it and over her cheekbone. Her hair was now parted to the right to try and hide it a little, but there was no use. Besides, Hange liked the eye patch. She thought it made her look cool. "Need a drink?"

"Yeah," Jean said, sitting down. Erwin was watching him from his place at the bar. When Jean received his drink, he raised the glass to Erwin, who responded in kind, raising his lone arm. Levi was sitting beside Erwin, lazily spinning a wooden dreidel on the surface of the bar. Levi had admitted once that he had never been very pious, but he appreciated everyone's effort to be inclusive during their Christmas celebrations. Jean moved over a few seats, and nodded to the former Major General and Captain. "How's it going?"

"I'm enjoying myself," Erwin said, setting down his glass. "Though I should be leaving soon."

"Don't tell me you have a class tomorrow," Jean said, his eyes widening. "It's Christmas!"

"Don't you think he knows it?" Levi asked, raising his glass to his mouth. Jean couldn't tell if he was drinking liquor or tea, because he always used a teacup for both. _Maybe he mixed_, Jean thought. "The bastard scheduled a class for tomorrow because he's a piece of shit of a person, and he likes to watch kids suffer."

"Tomorrow I'll know which students are serious about my course, and which are not," Erwin said placidly, never looking at either of them. "I see nothing wrong with that."

Jean grimaced, and he noticed Levi looking at him. "Bet you're thankful now," Levi said, "that you had me instead of Erwin for a commanding officer."

"You say that like you were easy to please," Jean said weakly.

"It's not about pleasing us," Erwin said. "You'll find that Hange was just as harsh on her soldiers, even if it doesn't outwardly appear to be so. It's very clear in Eren, Mikasa, and Armin, however, that her tactics to discipline her soldiers worked well. And, unlike Levi and I, her entire squadron survived the war."

Jean stared down at his liquor, and downed it. He let it tingle at his nerves, and then numb him to the memory. "So," Jean said, "what you're saying is… you just wanted us to survive?"

"That's the goal of any commanding officer," Erwin informed him. "Getting the job done while losing as little men as possible."

"So then," Jean said, "we failed."

"Not necessarily." Erwin shrugged, and then grimaced, his hand closing around his right stump. Jean knew from his own scars that it was phantom pains that plagued the older man. "We did get the job done, after all. And we could have lost more men while we were at it."

Jean closed his eyes as Erwin stood up. He downed his drink, and flipped his hat onto his head, nodding curtly to Jean, and he said, "_Joyeux No__ë__l, Jean Kirschtein_." He pulled on his coat, now easily able to slip it on with one arm. He gave Levi a short, but affectionate clap on the shoulder, and said quietly while moving past him, "_Joyeux anniversaire, vieil ami_."

Levi was left to Jean's presence, and the old _Capitaine_ glanced at Jean with his usual blank expression. "Has anyone ever told you that you have a horse face, Kirschtein?" Levi asked him in a bored tone.

"Yes, sir," Jean said. He winced as he felt Levi's glare. "I mean, Levi. You, and just about everyone in this fucking room has told me at least thrice over."

"Yeah, I know," Levi said, turning his face away. "I was just fucking with you."

Jean gritted his teeth to contain his anger. He'd known Levi nearly ten fucking years! He should be used to his bullshit by now. "Has anyone ever told _you_," Jean asked, feeling his courage overwhelm him, "that you have the face of a moping child that hasn't seen the light of day before?"

Levi was silent. His eyes moved, staring at Jean from the corners. Just staring. Jean's confidence fell through, and he swallowed nervously. _Oh shit_, Jean thought frantically, _I did not just say that_.

"Congratulations, Kirschtein," Levi said. "You finally grew some balls."

Jean didn't know what to say to that. So he shrugged, and looked away. He saw that Eren was using his break to dance with Mikasa, while Historia and Ymir took over at the Piano. Jean couldn't help the pang of jealousy that ran through him, but he ignored it. He did not pursue Mikasa, nor did he ever plan to. He knew it would be a fruitless effort.

Jean pulled a parcel out from the pocket of his jacket, and rested it on the table beside Levi's teacup. The man stared at him, and Jean could see his brow furrowing. He blinked profusely, and shook his head.

"You dumb fucking kids are all shit eating morons," Levi told him. Jean couldn't help but smirk a little. "Every fucking year I say I want nothing. What do you nosy little bastards do? You give me presents. I don't have the room in my apartment for your bullshit."

"That's fine," Jean said. "You can keep it in your pocket."

"Yeah?" Levi looked as though he wanted to fling the box very far away. He watched Jean with his usual dull, tired gaze, and he sighed. "Whatever." He picked up the box, and pulled the lid off carefully. He stared at the contents for a moment, before glancing up at Jean. "I don't understand you, Kirschtein."

"That's fine, sir," Jean said. He grimaced at his formalities, and he wondered if he would ever be able to break away from addressing Levi as his commanding officer, despite seeing him very much as a friend and equal. "I don't understand you either."

As Levi pulled the small silver lighter from within the box, Jean took out a carton of cigarettes, and offered the man one. Levi took one without looking, and instead he peered at the words inscribed on the face of the lighter. Levi frowned at it, and he stuck the cigarette in his mouth, lighting it carefully. He kept staring at the words as if he could not understand them, as if he had lost his own language in the matter of seconds.

"It's a little late for identification lighters," Jean admitted. "But a few weeks ago I remembered something you said to me. During the war. And I just figured, what the hell."

Levi withdrew the cigarette from his lips, and he spoke, blowing smoke into the air. "_Levi_," he read. "_Enterrer moi vertical, encul__é_."

"You said it," Jean said. "Not me."

"I don't remember," Levi said, setting the lighter into the box. "When did I say that?"

"Well…" Jean scratched his head. "I don't know what you said exactly. But you said something like that, during the truce. Do you remember? We were digging graves."

"Ah." Levi grimaced. "Yes. That was gross."

"It was your idea."

"I know," Levi said, his grimace twisting his features. "It was still gross."

"It can't be any more gross than dragging Erwin—"

"I don't want to talk about that," Levi said sharply. Jean swallowed his tongue. Because he understood the feeling. Whenever anyone brought up the war, how he'd been saved, how Eren had saved him through some sort of miracle or witchcraft, or really just the luck of a fresh body being right there. He had that same feeling of dread, that inexplicable need to flee. _I don't want to talk about that_. And everyone understood. Because everyone had been through some variation of that hell.

"I'm sorry I brought it up," Jean said.

Levi looked irritated. He took a drag on his cigarette, and he sighed. "I don't need your fucking pity, Jean," Levi said.

"I don't pity you, sir," Jean said. He corrected himself quickly. "Levi."

"No?" Levi shook his head. "You could have fooled me. All you little shits do is pity me."

"No," Jean said. "We pity ourselves. We have no room to pity you."

Levi said nothing. The end of his cigarette began to smolder. Levi extinguished it, smothering the flame in an ashtray just as Mikasa appeared behind him. Jean watched the girl, watched her face as she stood. She looked angry, or uncomfortable. Or both. Levi sensed her presence, and twisted to face her. Eren had plopped down beside Jean, and asked Hange for a drink eagerly.

"What do you want?" Levi asked. Mikasa looked at him, and her angry seemed to melt away. Her discomfort remained evident, and she stood very still, her body awkwardly erect. She didn't seem to know what to do. "Well? Come on, girl, do you need to take a piss, or something?"

"I want you to come and dance," Mikasa told him. If it had been anyone else, said with any other face, Jean would have thought her to be joking. But no. Mikasa said it with the utmost seriousness, her lips pressed so thinly together that they had gone white. It was clear that she did not want to do this, but something was forcing her to. Maybe she had lost a bet.

Levi was taking none of it. "Don't be stupid," he said sullenly. He turned his back to the girl. "Leave me alone."

"Just come out and dance," Mikasa demanded. "Get up."

"And fuck up my leg even worse for your childish whim?" Levi looked at Mikasa sharply. "Go to hell."

Mikasa bristled with impatience. "You're only truly a cripple when you believe you are, _Capitaine_," she said sharply, but not unkindly. Jean could see a softness in her eyes. "And in all honesty, out of everyone here, you are the only one holding yourself in a low regard."

Levi pinched the bridge of his nose. "_Dieu_," he muttered, "you're a crazy bitch." He waited a few moments, as if he expected her to leave. And then he closed his eyes, and shook his head. "Fine. Whatever." He slipped off the chair easily, easily forsaking his injury. Levi only used his cane when no one was around— no one meaning, anyone but their immediate group of friends. Since the majority of them had seen him in the early days of rehabilitation. Mikasa, interestingly enough, was not among that number.

"Most awkward dance ever," Eren said suddenly from beside Jean. "Calling it right now."

Jean glared at him. "Did you put her up to that?" Jean asked him furiously.

Eren glanced at him, and he rolled his eyes, taking a sip of whatever alcohol he was drinking. "Chill out," Eren said. His French was fine— immaculate, compared to Connie's. He still preferred to speak in English, though, since it was something he knew better. He also only spoke in German now when he wanted to have private conversations with Mikasa and Armin. Not that it helped much, since they all had picked up enough German to piece together what they were saying. "Mikasa felt bad that she didn't have a present for Levi, or something. I don't know, don't ask me how her mind works. But no one made her ask him that. She did that because she… I dunno, maybe she feels like he needs to be reminded that he's not an invalid."

Jean had no idea what to say. Eren sat lazily, his eyes on Mikasa as the girl attempted to teach Levi a dance from the current decade, something that could go easy with the jazzy tune Historia and Ymir were playing. Ymir had cut her hair short again, styling it so boyishly that it was slicked back and parted, while Historia maintained a delicate bob. Actually, she looked a bit like how Armin had looked when they had first met, before the growth spurt.

He couldn't help but be enraged. He stared at Eren, the boy who had saved Jean's life, and with a wave of unbridled, undeserving fury, he jumped from his barstool and declared, "You don't deserve her!"

Eren stared at him blankly, completely oblivious, and his nose scrunched up in confusion. "What?" Eren asked incredulously. "What the hell have you been smoking, Jean?"

Jean couldn't believe it. How ignorant could a person be not to see it? Jean had always backed off, because he could see how genuine Mikasa's feelings for Eren were, but this— this little shit just could not take a hint!

"Unbelievable," Jean murmured, spinning away. "_Je t'encule,_ Eren, _merde_…"

"What the fuck…?" Eren asked, his gauzy, guileless green eyes growing wide as Jean fled. "Jean! What the hell is wrong with you?"

Jean slipped outside in the chilly winter night, and slammed the door behind him. He pressed his back to the door and watched as snowflakes fluttered in the lamplight, dusting the Parisian road with a thin coating of white. On the step, a man was sitting placidly, embracing his knees as though he was a child, and resting his chin in his arms. He had shoulder length blonde hair, which was half pulled up away from his face.

"_Joyeux No__ë__l_, Jean," Armin Arlert greeted, raising his eyes to Jean's face. He smiled weakly. He was bundled in a scarf, and a long navy coat, as though he had expected to be outside for a while. There was snow coating his knees.

"_Fr__ö__hliche Weinachten_, Armin," Jean responded, his tongue not accustomed to the German words. He tried, though, and Armin looked grateful.

"My family never celebrated Christmas," Armin said softly.

"Weren't they atheists?" Jean asked.

"It's so easy to just label them and be done with it, isn't it?" Armin sounded a little bitter, but Jean could understand why. He probably got sick of that question. "No, they were not atheists."

"Sorry," Jean said, cooling down quickly from his anger at Eren. He carefully sat down beside Armin on the step. "Really. I know you miss them."

Armin shrugged, and blinked out into the dark street. "It's a part of life," he said easily. "You miss your mother, Eren misses his, Mikasa misses both her parents. We were born into this world to outlive the generation before us. That's our role in the universe. To fix their wrongs, and keep moving forward, until the next generation can attempt to fix our wrongs, and create new problems in the process…" Armin smiled vaguely. "It's an endless cycle of responsibility that does not belong to us. To live for our predecessors and our descendents."

"You've been spending too much time out in the cold alone," Jean informed him teasingly. He couldn't help the concern that slipped into his tone as he pressed a hand to Armin's shoulder. "Do you want to grab some coffee? I could use a wake up."

"No, I'm fine." Armin shook his head. "I'm just… thinking. Aloud. I'm sorry, am I freaking you out?"

"No," Jean answered without thinking, despite it not being entirely true. "But I've got to admit, I'm scared for your health. How long have you been out here?"

"An hour, I think," Armin said distantly. "Or… maybe two, I don't know. I've just been thinking a lot."

"Jesus Christ," Jean breathed, his breath misting upon the air. "You're such a crazy bastard, Armin. You're going to catch pneumonia, or… or hypothermia, or _something_."

"I'll be fine," Armin sighed. He glanced at Jean, and smiled gently. "So why are you out here?"

"Ugh." Jean dropped his head in his hands. "Fuck me with a rusty spike, I fucking hate Eren."

"No you don't," Armin laughed. Jean grumbled, still hiding his face. "You know you don't. You just don't get along with him, because your personalities clash. And that's totally fine."

"It's not just that," Jean said, running his fingers through his hair. It was going prematurely gray, and Jean hated it. "It's the way he treats Mikasa. Like he has no clue."

"Jean," Armin said delicately, "Eren _doesn't _have a clue."

"But how?" Jean groaned in frustration. "How could anyone be so fucking stupid?"

"Well," Armin said with a laugh, "you've seen Eren try to read, haven't you?"

"Oh, yeah," Jean said. "The bastard's illiterate. Can he even read sheet music?"

"No," Armin said. "His mother taught him everything by ear. Which is why he can play the piano without seeing the keys. And why he's not too bothered with how poor his eyesight is right now. It's not like he'd be reading or writing much anyway."

Jean just could not respond. He was in such an angry state, he couldn't bring himself to say or do anything but mope. Armin patted his back gently, and for a few minutes they sat like this. After around ten minutes of silence, Jean finally cracked. "Did you get my present?" Jean asked. The night before, they had all placed the respective gifts for everyone (excluding Levi, who did not celebrate Christmas, but would receive birthday gifts later in the evening) under the tree in the corner. Due to their varying personalities, the gifts were picked off as the day went on. Jean could not remember seeing Armin take in his haul, though.

"Yes!" Armin gasped excitedly, his eyes brightening up like a candle being lit behind them. "How did you find that? I think I might have cried a little when I saw that it was first edition, and in such a fine state—"

"When you live in Paris all your life," Jean said, "you get connections. Especially when you realize just how much the people in this city love their alcohol."

"Thank you," Armin said, his eyes sparkling. "It's another Hugo novel I can cross off my list."

Jean laughed easily, and he nodded. "Oh," he said, "and thank _you_. Now I don't have to waste money at the store buying cigarettes, because I can just roll my own."

"I figured you'd enjoy that," Armin said, smiling thinly. "Though I honestly have no idea how it works."

"I'll show you sometime," Jean said. He pulled out his carton of cigarettes, and offered one out. Armin took one gratefully, and slipped it between his lips. Jean lit his own, and then Armin's, and they sat side by side placidly, staring out into the dark, chilly night. They let their cigarettes smolder, and then, after a long silence, Jean wondered aloud, "Hey, did you hear about that attempted coup in Germany?"

"The one that happened in Munich last month?" Armin asked, blinking up at Jean. "I heard. I'm just glad I'm not there anymore, honestly."

"I bet," Jean said. He stared ahead of him, and let the cigarette burn, and he huffed some smoke. "Though honestly, is France much better?"

"I don't mind it," Armin said thoughtfully. "I was born here, after all. Though, Paris is a lot different than Lille, for sure. I'm not sure, really, because I loved Schipkau a lot— it was my home. But the war took that away from me."

"I'm sure you could go back," Jean said. "Schipkau's still around, right? It wasn't destroyed or anything."

"It's gone," Armin said firmly. He took a drag on the cigarette, blowing smoke as easily as Jean before tossing it out into the street. Once, Armin hadn't had the taste for smoking, but things changed. And so did people. "For me, anyway."

Jean didn't know what to say. When Jean had received the news that his mother had died— a few weeks after he'd been transferred from one hospital to another, he'd gotten a letter detailing the circumstances of her demise. It had been a slow acting sickness that she had not told him about, likely because of his role in the war. He remembered coming home to the _L__é__gion_, and feeling that it was no longer home anymore. That was why Jean had suggested turning the place into a bar upon the gradual arrival of various friends and foes from the war. He thought that if he could change his home somehow, maybe it would become his again. And, astonishingly, he'd been right.

"I'm so sorry, Armin," Jean said, his voice unable to carry the weight of his words. He tossed his cigarette away, snuffing it with the sole of his boot. Armin shrugged, and he pulled a watch from his pocket, clicking it open. Jean glanced at it, initially thinking it was a normal pocket watch, but then he noticed a photograph pressed into the lid. Jean peered closer, blinking at it in confusion, and then he realized he recognized the photograph. He had been there that day. He had been snickering with Reiner behind the photographer who had taken a candid shot of Armin and Annie sitting on the steps of Notre Dame, a book resting between them. The photographer had returned the photographs taken to Eren a few months earlier, and Jean remembered the man's final words on the picture.

"_Please tell the _petite mademoiselle_ she has a very pretty smile_."

Jean and Eren had not spoken about it. Annie had only just been transferred from Paris to London, her condition deemed stable. Reiner and Bertholdt had disappeared after Annie had admitted to being a traitor and complicit to some terrible war crime, which had gotten the police at Jean's door the very day Annie had taken her pill, and Reiner and Berholdt had run. They would not say what they had done, only that they were to be tried and held responsible.

"Where did you get that watch?" Jean asked casually. He pretended not to notice the photograph, which was a very sweet picture of Armin speaking excitedly without even realizing he was being observed, and Annie bowing her head, her pale hair toyed into a bob around her cheeks. She wore a white sun hat, and a casual loose dress cinched around her hips, allowing it to appear layered. She wore a smile like captured lightning. Fleeting and rare, so suddenly apparent that it was hard to catch or stare at for too long. It was a dangerous smile, a mystery caught on film.

"Oh," Armin said. He looked surprised, as if he had not realized he'd been staring at the photograph for so long. "It was Eren's gift to me. I have no idea where he got the picture, though."

Jean didn't want to spoil it. He didn't want Armin to know that Eren had hidden the pictures away in a drawer upstairs, refusing to look at them or acknowledge their existence. Because that had been the last photograph of Annie ever taken, and likewise it was the last time they would ever see her happy. So Jean could not entirely blame Eren for selfishly hiding the photographs for so long— Jean hadn't wanted to see them either.

"She looks happy," Jean said. He couldn't help sounding bitter. He looked at Annie, smiling vaguely like a wolf, her eyes just as dull as ever, and Jean was angry. _Why did you take that fucking pill, Annie? _

"I don't remember her smiling," Armin admitted. "Maybe I was distracted. I didn't notice a photographer either."

"What were you talking about?" Jean asked. He couldn't help but stare at the photo now. It was so hard not to.

"I… I think I was talking about the ocean," Armin said distantly. "She's never seen it, you know…"

Jean swallowed uncomfortably. His anger at Annie was rooted in the fact that he couldn't… he couldn't understand her betrayal. "She's a traitor," Jean said quietly. "If she ever wakes up, she'll be tried for treason."

"Do you blame her for that?" Armin asked him, his expression going cold. "Do you hate her now, because you know she fought for Germany?"

Jean winced, and he shook his head furiously. "No," he said. "No, that's not— _Christ_, Armin, I should have… I should have known. Do you remember, back when we started that truce, Reiner came over to our trench? Well, he asked Annie if she could speak German, and she said no. Of course she could speak German, she admitted the _very next night_ that she was born in Germany, but I didn't even connect the two until…"

Armin pressed his hand to Jean's arm, and his eyes softened. "I'm sorry," Armin said. "It's different for you. She didn't just betray your country, she endangered your life… but she also saved mine." Armin smiled in that strange, knowing way of his, and Jean's stomach twisted uneasily. "So maybe I'm a little biased."

"I don't hate any of you," Jean whispered. "I never did, even… even when Marco died, I couldn't… I couldn't bring myself to blame you guys, because it wasn't your fault. It was just the war, wasn't it? Just the war…"

"The war," Armin said softly, "made monsters of us all."

"No." Jean shook his head furiously, his fingers balling into fists against his knees. "The only monsters are the fucking chemists. The war wouldn't have been so bad, if they hadn't been blasting us with gas so often…" Jean looked at Armin, and he stood up, shaking his head profusely. "Forget it. Let's just forget it all, Armin."

"Maybe you can try," Armin murmured, pulling his knees up to his chest again, hugging them tightly. He had put the watch away a few minutes before. "But I'll never forget it, Jean. I can't forget all the horrible things I've seen… and done."

His words left a bad taste in Jean's mouth, and as he stood on the steps of the _L__é__gion du __É__claireurs_, breathing in the icy winter air, and exhaling his incredible sorrows. He wanted to cry, but he couldn't, not in front of Armin, not in front of anyone. He didn't want anyone to know how weak he truly felt. How lonely it was, despite all the warmth. He could hear laughter coming from within the bar, and suddenly the door swung open from behind them.

"What are you two doing out here?" Historia gasped breathlessly. Jean couldn't look at her. He was fighting tears in his eyes. "Aren't you going to sing to Levi with us?"

"We wouldn't miss it!" Armin laughed easily, pushing himself to his feet. He dusted the snow off his legs, and touched Jean's arm.

Historia watched them both with large blue eyes, and she looked concerned as she hugged the doorframe, resting her flaxen hair against the wood. "Is everything all right?" she asked softly.

"We're fine, Historia," Armin said gently. "Right, Jean?"

In the back of Jean's mind, he could hear gunshots. He could feel his eyes burning as he stumbled blindly, coughing and calling out, "_Marco? Marco_!"

Jean turned to face Historia, and he smirked. "Just took a little cig break," he laughed, shoving his hands into his pocket. "Happy Christmas, Historia."

Historia Reiss's eyes glittered knowingly, but she nodded fast anyway, smiling brightly. "_Joyeux No__ë__l_!" she laughed.

* * *

_The 1920's was the main reason I wrote this AU, but it ended up being the time period I wrote the least about. I'm sorry, Angie! _


	4. Lille, 1917

**LILLE, 1917**

"Marco? Marco!" He could not see anything. He'd lost his mask in the blast, just as he'd lost sight of Marco. He knew breathing in the toxic air would make everything worse, and he could hardly breathe with the gas filling up his lungs, turning his insides charred and crumbled. He coughed, and stumbled, crashing into an unrefined dirt wall, tasting dirt in his mouth as well as chemicals. Jean gritted his teeth, fumbling unsteadily in the mist. He felt nauseous. His fingers closed around a shirt, an arm, and Jean couldn't help but laugh in relief. "M-Marco? Come on, get up, _salaud_, we—" He coughed, and felt around for Marco's shoulder to help him sit up. "We've got to get out of here, Germans are coming, and it's too—"

His fingers touched something wet. He could not see what it was, exactly, because the fog of chemicals was too thick, and it was burning his eyes to keep them open, so he simply closed them. He tentatively touched the wet spot again, and gunshots whistled in the distance. Cannon fire jostled his thoughts, but he was entranced and sickened. He felt Marco's face, his nose and mouth, and then— nothing. Liquid. And nothing. Jean felt the squishiness of flesh, and the warmth of blood. He felt the slick, protruding solidity of bone.

"M-Marco…?" Jean choked, certain but disbelieving. He was choking on air as it poisoned him, baking him in a hole, and Jean began to tremble as he bent over Marco's body, searching it blindly with his fingers. No, it couldn't be true, the blast was too far away— Jean would have gotten hit too, there was no way— "_Marco_!"

Jean was struck from behind with the butt of a rifle. He fell across Marco's corpse, breathing in the choking gas, and tasting dirt while Marco's blood brushed his lips. Pain burst from the back of his head, stars dancing in his eyes, and terror hit him harder than the agony of the gas, the ache at the back of his head, the gnawing grief at the revelation that Marco was dead, he was dead, how could he be fucking dead—

"Oh," Jean breathed, "_Dieu_…"

He was torn from Marco's body, and shoved to the ground. Jean reached blindly for his rifle, but there was a sudden weight on his chest, and the shaft of a gun crushing his larynx. Jean could suddenly see. There was a gas mask hovering very close to his face, and a German soldier pinning him to the ground. Jean was too stunned to do anything. He was supposed to be good in these situations. That was why Levi had sent him off on his own with Marco, while taking his own elite squadron to retrieve Erwin Smith.

He was supposed to be able to think under pressure. But he'd cracked. He was going to die.

Darkness danced at the corners of his vision as the soldier spoke to him, but the words got muffled in the hell around them. Screams and gunfire and cannons crashing swallowed up the soldier's voice. And then, the soldier took off his gas mask. The last thing Jean saw before the mask was fastened to his own face was a pair of startling green eyes, determination burning furiously within them. Jean wanted to scream when his vision escaped him, and the pressure of a body— _Marco, don't, please, don't move his corpse, I can still get him home_— being moved atop him made him begin to cry.

"Play dead," said the soldier boy. The last thing he heard before the entire world fell apart.

Jean awoke in a bed. He felt the sheets, warm and soft and— and _oh god_— he felt so overwhelmingly at peace. He could be dead. He could be dead, and he could be okay with that, because he had never been so comfortable in his entire damn life. He melted against the mattress, listening to the strange, lilting sound of a bird chirping somewhere close by.

He opened his eyes, rays of morning sunlight blinding him, and he blinked rapidly. There was a pain at the back of his head, and a dryness in his throat, and a burning in his eyes. And oh… his _back_. It was throbbing unlike any other sensation, like there was a rusty spike stuck inside his spine.

But… he was alive… wasn't he?

"Marco…?" Jean uttered faintly. His mind was cluttered, and foggy. As if a mist had clouded all his senses. "Marco…"

A soft, warm face appeared above him. A familiar face.

"Oh!" gasped the little blonde nurse. "You're awake!"

"Christa…?" Jean struggled to sit up, but she quickly held him back down by the shoulders, admonishing him with a hurried shout.

"Oh, no you don't!" Christa cried, pinning his shoulders to the bed. He winced, and groaned. "Do you know how lucky you are, Jean? That bayonet almost hit your spine! You wouldn't have been able to walk every again if it had been just a few centimeters to the right…"

"_What_?" Jean stared up at the blonde girl, her angelic face full of concern. _She must be a goddess_, Jean thought numbly. _Did she save me from the battlefield?_ "_Bayonet_…?"

"Yeah," Christa sighed. Her hair was pulled back, but her white veil was nowhere to be seen. Strands of flax tickled her nose. "You were stabbed with one. You were found not too long after by an American soldier…" Christa pulled a clipboard from the edge of his bed, and carefully flipped through the pages. "Do you know a boy named Connie Springer?"

"Connie…?" Jean blinked dazedly. "Isn't that a girl's name…?"

Christa laughed. "Oh, don't let him hear you say that… he went through a lot of trouble to get you out of that trench, you know. He dislocated his shoulder carrying you."

"What?" Jean felt dizzy. Why would anyone…? He sighed, and rubbed his face tiredly. He had bandages on his hands from blisters. He looked around, and saw that there were several other beds lined up in the room. Beside Jean, there was a boy laying very still, a bandage over his eyes. "Christa, is Marco on that list?"

"Marco…?" Christa looked at him curiously, and she bit her lip. "Marco… Bodt, right?" She flipped the pages of her clipboard delicately, watching them turn, and scanning them with quick eyes. "No… no I don't see anything about him…"

"Can you check again?" Jean asked desperately. "I… I was with him, I remember that. But I can't remember anything past this… this huge explosion…"

"It's not uncommon for your memory to be a little hazy," Christa said gently. She gestured to the bed beside Jean's. "This poor boy woke up without even remembering his name."

Jean didn't care about the boy beside him. Jean only cared about what happened to Marco. _Why can't I fucking remember?_ "Where am I?" Jean murmured, feeling sick to his stomach.

"Lille, France," Christa said softly.

"N-not… not Belgium?" Jean asked faintly.

Christa shook her head. "No, this is Lille." Christa shrugged. "Lille is very close to the border, so they just haul everyone here that they find injured. We're not particularly biased."

"Lille…" That name sounded familiar. Like a dream was surfacing, and beckoning him to succumb. "Hey… isn't this where…?"

"Hmm?" Christa looked at him. She smiled, and pressed her hand to his forehead. "You should really rest up," she told him. "You had a fever before, and you were thrashing all about and muttering to yourself. I think you should just relax, and think about home."

"Home…?" Jean stared at her, and he bolted upright. Christa gasped, and tried to push him down again. "Am I going home? Christa?"

"Oh, stop…" she fretted, gripping his arms tightly and twisting her head to look at the door. "You'll rip your stitches if you—"

"Christa, am I going home?" Jean felt an inexplicable warmth at the thought. Paris. Home. _M__é__re_. After so long… He felt sick and surprised, terrified and exhilarated. It was the taste of freedom, a relief and a hope and a trial all in one. Perhaps Jean would just break apart, disintegrate before he could ever reach his front door. Maybe that would be easier, simpler. He wasn't the same person he'd been when he had left Paris.

"Jean…" Christa smiled slightly, and she shook her head. "First of all… my name isn't Christa. I lied to you."

"What?" he asked. His head hurt too much for this shit.

"My name is Historia Reiss," Christa said. And suddenly, Jean realized her accent was different. She didn't speak with that Scottish lilt anymore. It was a smooth, refined English cadence. "My father is a very prestigious Lord in England— and I'm his bastard daughter, whose very existence sparks scandal." She laughed, an easy little giggle that Jean could not fathom. "I lied to you— to everyone, really— because Historia Reiss was not the person I wanted to be, because she's a person that no one wanted. Christa Renz, though…" She smiled brightly. "Well, that's not a name you'd associate with sin, is it?"

Jean didn't know what to say. He could only nod, vaguely confused, but understanding. "Honestly," Jean said distantly, "I couldn't care less what your name is. Right now, I'm just glad to see a familiar face."

Historia beamed at him, and Jean could tell that he'd genuinely pleased her. "Well I'm right here," Historia said earnestly. "I do need to tend to some other patients, but I can come back in a little bit if you want to talk. Oh, and I can ask a higher up about Marco!" She clasped her hands together excitedly, and she nodded to Jean. "But you really need to lay down, okay? This isn't a concerned nurse thing, I swear— the wound is in an odd position, and sitting up could _easily_ tear the stitches."

"Okay," Jean said, settling back into his bed. He watched rays of sunlight dance in through the open window. Historia turned her back to him, hugging her clipboard to her chest. "Chris— I mean, Historia. You never answered my question."

"Hmm?" She looked back at him. Another nurse came into the room, a familiar dark skinned girl with wicked eyes and freckles. She smirked at Jean, and twirled a dark braid around her finger. Unlike the other nurses, the girl was wearing trousers and an apron, a red cross attached to her bicep. "Oh! Oh, right. Yes, Jean, you're going home. There's no way you could fight anymore, with that wound."

Jean breathed deeply in relief. "Oh," he said quietly. "Thanks."

"It's fine," Historia said sweetly. She passed Ymir, and looked up at the girl, touching her arm and saying something rapidly in Spanish. She pointed to a bed to the far end of the room, and Ymir nodded, watching the tiny blonde as she left. Then, Ymir grinned toothily, and winked at Jean.

"_Hola_," she greeted cheerfully. "Long time no see, yes?"

Jean stared at her incredulously. "Your face is definitely not one I expected to see ever again," Jean admitted.

"No?" Ymir gave a little pout. "No, cigarette friend?"

"I guess I should count myself lucky," Jean said, rolling his eyes. That caused his head to start pounding. "At least you can sort of speak English now."

"I have learned many wonderful words," Ymir stated, folding her arm across her chest, and cocking her hip. "Ah, like… fuck you, bastard." She smiled sweetly. "Yes, I enjoy those words."

"Don't you have a patient, or something?" Jean asked, sitting up. Historia was sweet, but he was getting fidgety. And his back hurt a lot, holy shit.

"Yes," Ymir said, glancing at the far side of the room. "But he will not mind none. He die soon, maybe."

"Christ!" Jean peered over the bed next to him to see the other filled beds. Beside the unconscious boy, a man was sitting up in his bed. His right leg was elevated, a bandage firmly wrapped around it, and he wore an impassive, hardened look that was achingly familiar. It sparked astonishment, and fear, and more than anything _relief_. "_Capitaine_ Levi!"

Levi looked at him blankly. His blue eyes held no interest, and the man stared at Jean for a few moments with the same expression. He looked tired. Defeated. "Kirschtein," Levi addressed him. "I take it your mission went to shit too?"

"I… guess…" Jean swallowed, and he rubbed his eyes in exhaustion. "_Merde_, I can't remember…"

"Oh," Ymir said, glancing at Levi. "You. You are the one all people in town talk about."

Levi's gaze moved to the tall nurse, and he leaned back. "I'm afraid you'll have to explain," Levi said. "I have no idea what the hell you're talking about."

Ymir rolled her eyes. "Levi, yes?" she said, tossing her braid over the shoulder. "Small. Fucked up leg. Face of a _ni__ñ__o_."

"What was that?" Levi looked irritated, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. "Speak fucking English."

"Touchy," Ymir said, smiling toothily. "In town, they call you, eh…" She snapped her fingers, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "Eh_, fortissimo soldado_— most strong soldier." She rolled her eyes. "Silly French."

"_Capitaine_," Jean said, staring at his superior officer in wonder. "What happened?"

"I did what I had to," Levi said in French. He looked unfazed at how ominous his phrasing was. "I got the job done."

Jean blinked rapidly, trying to understand what that meant. "So… Erwin Smith is…?"

Levi closed his eyes. He jerked his thumb to his left, turning his head so he could stare forward. Jean tried to get a good look at the bed beside Levi, but his vision was rather bleary. He squinted, but all he could make out was Erwin's face, his mouth parted and his hair askew.

"Oh," Jean sighed, relieved, "so he's alive…"

"Maybe." Levi rested his elbow on his good knee, and planted his chin in his palm. "Depends on what you call alive. Because he sure as fuck isn't doing too well."

"So…" Jean grimaced. "He's dying?"

"I have no idea," Levi said with a grumble. "These bastards tell me nothing."

Ymir gave a hearty laugh, which caused Jean to cringe. "Oh," she said, smirking as she wandered to Erwin Smith's bed. "Him? He fight fever. Eh… we cut his arm, but infection might spread. Dunno."

"What?" Jean's heart was beating very hard, and he looked at Levi. "His arm?"

"Amputated," Levi said in a quiet monotone. "Last night. You can thank God that you weren't awake for that, Kirschtein. You might have shat your pants."

Jean swallowed thickly. He sunk into his mattress, staring down at his hands, and he wondered how everything had gone so horribly wrong so fast. Sure, the war had been hell before this, but suddenly everything was bleak. Marco was missing, Levi was injured, only part of Erwin Smith had been retrieved. And Jean couldn't move his legs. _Wait_, he thought, staring dumbly at his knees. _What?_

He could feel his legs fine. But he could not will them to move. What was this? What the hell was happening? "Ymir," Jean said, his eyes going wide. "Why can't I move my legs?"

Jean could see Levi glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, and the way his eyes softened ever so slightly. Jean had grown to sense that Levi, though callous and sometimes cruel, genuinely cared about his comrades. But Jean was upset, and beginning to panic. _Why? Why my legs, why now? _He couldn't believe it. He didn't want to.

"Huh?" Ymir looked at him, her dark eyes narrowing. "Your legs?"

"Yeah, they…" Jean hefted himself completely upright, and he attempted to sling his legs off the side of his bed, but because they were unyielding, he ended up tumbling off the cot and landing in an _excruciating_ heap upon the floor. "Fuck!"

"Wow," Ymir commented, "_movida ingeniosa_."

Jean groaned, and pushed himself to his elbows. Tears stung his eyes, tears of shame and pain, and he couldn't help it. What was wrong with him? What was wrong with the fucking _world_?

"Oi," Levi called. "Kirschtein."

"Fine," he breathed, his arms trembling. "I'm… I'm fine."

Ymir appeared before him, bending on one knee and staring with a lofty smirk. "Hey," she said. "Historia will skelp me if she know I let you fall out of bed, yeah? C'mon, up now."

Jean let Ymir pull him up by the arms, not so gently grabbing his torso and hauling back onto the bed. Pain lanced through him, jolting his legs, and he let out a tiny cry of agony. "_Merde_," he rasped, unable to move.

"Anyways," Ymir yawned. "You are in shock, stupid. You can move legs, just wait. They will move."

"Really…?" Jean couldn't help but feel incredulous. He'd already been devising different ways to tell his mother to make the_ L__é__gion_ wheelchair friendly.

Ymir rolled her eyes. "Yeah," she said. "So quit it out, yes? Some people here are not so lucky as to still have both legs."

Jean didn't know what to say. He was breathless, and aching, and he wanted to cry but he was too ashamed. He watched Ymir go to Erwin Smith's bedside, and she began to change his bandages. Jean was thankful for his limited view of the action, because otherwise he'd have puked.

Jean laid on his side for a while, staring blankly into space. He thought about the battlefield, about the choices he had made, and the people he had killed, and the friends he had not forgotten. He thought about the Christmas he had spent befriending Germans, and about the days when the war had been simpler, and chemicals had not been raining from the skies.

"_Capitaine_," Jean whispered as he watched a Nurse bustle through their room with a small Christmas tree in her hands. "Don't tell me. It's Christmas?"

"I guess," Levi said vacantly. "I don't know. I stopped counting days awhile ago."

Jean closed his eyes. He breathed in the musty scent of the cloth, of the antiseptic and the blood that clung to the hospital room, and he wanted to bury his face in his pillow and never allow it to surface. This was fucking bullshit. It was horrible, and everything was flooding into Jean's heart like an onslaught of heavy emotions. It was pushing him to his breaking point.

"_Joyeux No__ë__l_," Jean mumbled.

"Yeah," Levi said. "Sure."

"Sorry," Jean said quietly. "I know you're Jewish."

"It's fine," Levi said. He looked at Jean, his tired eyes searching Jean's expression. "I don't mind. Merry Christmas to you too, and shit."

Jean couldn't help but laugh, muffling the sound against his pillow. Ymir had left a while ago, and the sun was making a steady decline, casting strange shadows about the eerie hospital room. "Do you celebrate your holidays, then?" Jean asked. He didn't mean to be nosy, but he was bored. And Levi was the only one awake.

"Not really," Levi said.

Jean was having trouble keeping up a conversation with the man. "Did you celebrate when you were younger?" Jean asked. _Now_ he was being nosy. And Levi knew it well. He glared at Jean, his eyes shadowing with a certain kind of grumpiness. He did answer, though.

"Yes," Levi said briskly. "If you really want to know, I was very devout when I was a child."

Jean cracked a grin. He couldn't imagine it. Levi, a devout little Jewish boy! "What happened?" Jean asked.

Levi's eyes rolled upward. He glanced at Erwin, and his brow furrowed irritably. "God abandoned me," Levi said. "So I abandoned him."

"Was that in England?" Jean asked. He kept pushing. He had nothing better to do, and Levi couldn't get up to punch him. Besides, he wasn't his superior anymore, right?

Levi looked at Jean, and his eyes narrowed. "Yeah," he said slowly, begrudgingly. "I lived in London."

"Did you know Erwin, sir?"

Levi pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. "Why are you so fucking chatty?" Levi grumbled.

"I'm bored," Jean said, fidgety in his cot. "Aren't you?"

Levi sat in that position for a few moments, before he dropped his hand into his lap. "I did know Erwin when I was younger," Levi said dully. "He was a son of a fucking bitch, and I hated his guts."

"And you risked your life to save him," Jean pointed out.

"He has information we need," Levi said quietly.

"_Capitaine_," Jean said, "we're not soldiers anymore."

Levi looked at him sharply. "Kirschtein," he said in his smooth, low monotone. "There's something you need to know. You will never stop being a soldier. No matter how hard you convince yourself, no matter how much time passes, no matter how cushy and sweet your life becomes, part of you will always be in hell."

Jean felt his words like a slap in the face. He sat up, pain causing his limbs to shake, and he swallowed thickly. "You can't believe that, sir," Jean said faintly.

"No?" Levi's eyes were hard. "Think, Kirschtein. If we're not soldiers, why the hell are you still calling me that?"

Jean couldn't say anything. He was scared, and mortified, and it hurt because it had to be true.

"Yeah." Levi's shoulders slumped. "Thought so."

Jean couldn't speak. The sunset was spilling into the room, crawling across the floor and burning its last bits of life against the shadows. There was snow gathering on the windowsill. There were distant sounds of Christmas carols being sung. Jean could see the boy in the bed beside him, see his fingers twitching. Jean could see the burned flesh of his cheeks beneath the bandages.

Historia appeared not too long after with a short boy with a round face and a shaved head. His arm was in a sling, and he spotted Jean and grinned broadly. He wandered to Jean's bedside, and tilted his head. Jean had to flip onto his back to look up at him.

"Uh, hi," said the boy. His accent was very clearly American. There was a drawl, a cadence that was very distinct to that of the United States. "Can you speak English?"

"Yes," Jean said cautiously. He glanced at Historia, who smiled and nodded at him. "Are you… the one that saved me?"

The boy nodded, looking a little distant at that. He held out his good hand, and Jean sat up, wincing in pain as he shook it. "Connie Springer," the boy said. "I'm a friend of Sasha's."

"Sasha?" Jean's eyes widened. He'd completely forgotten about the female snipers of his regiment. "Oh, _merde_, is she okay?"

"Yeah, she's fine." Connie rolled his eyes. "I think she's eating somewhere, or something. But I just… I wanted to see if you were okay. We kinda thought you were dead."

"Sasha was there when you found me?" Jean asked, stunned.

"Yeah," Connie said, blinking confusedly at Jean. "What, you don't remember? We found you because you were shoutin' and squirming under that corpse. If Sasha hadn't recognized your voice, we probably wouldn't have even gone looking for you. There was a shit ton of gas in that trench, y'know?" Connie glanced at the boy in the bed beside Jean's. "And we ended up finding this poor sucker not long after. His eyes were burnin' from the gas, and y'know, Sasha and I couldn't leave a guy wailing like that. I don't even know what side he was fightin' on."

"A corpse…?" Jean blinked rapidly as he tried to remember. "What do you mean? A corpse…?"

"Yeah…" Connie scratched his shaved head, and his brow furrowed. "Well, you must've done it to save yourself from the Germans. Playin' dead, y'know? Because that wound on your back, it was from a bayonet that stabbed through the dead body into you, to check if you were alive." Connie stared at Jean, his eyes widening. "Shit, do you really not remember?"

Jean was shaking. He stared at his hands as they trembled, and he could feel tears gathering in his eyes. His throat was constricting painfully, and he pressed his quaking fingers to his lips, his eyes widening in horror. _No_, he thought. _No, definitely not. No_. He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to look at Connie, or Historia, or anyone. It couldn't be.

"Um," Historia said softly. "Jean, I… I have a list of missing from your regiment here. I need you to… to tell me if you know what happened to them."

Jean was nodding without realizing, bile clawing at his tightened throat. He listened to Historia take a deep breath.

"Marco Bodt," she said quietly. Jean's heart clenched in despair, and he shook his head fast, biting his tongue. No. No, absolutely not. It wasn't possible. Marco was out there… _Marco? Marco!_ "Auruo Bossard, Erd Gin, Anton Leonhardt—"

"Annie?" Jean choked, his eyes snapping open. Historia looked at him, her eyes very sad.

"Annie?" Historia asked gently. "Is that what you called him?"

"No…" Jean looked away. He saw Levi staring straight ahead, the man's knuckles white as they clenched fistfuls of his blanket. "No, it's nothing. G-go on."

Historia's eyebrows furrowed uncertainly, but she said nothing more about Annie. _She can't be dead_, Jean thought firmly. _She's crazy, but a survivalist. Maybe she deserted_.

"Um…" Historia ran her finger down the list on her clipboard. "Right. So… Anton Leonhardt… Peter Ral—"

"Petra."

Historia looked at Levi, stunned that he had spoken. Her fingers tightened against her clipboard, and she stared at Levi with her mouth agape. "E-excuse me?" she squeaked.

"Her name was Petra," Levi said dully. He was staring out the window between his bed and Erwin's. His face was angled away from them. "She was part of my elite squad of sharpshooters. Petra Ral, Auruo Bossard, Erd Gin, and Gunther Schultz." Levi turned his face to Historia, and Jean saw his that his eyes had grown very soft. He looked rather unlike the stoic man Jean had come to respect, but instead like he had shed a few layers of ice, and allowed them to see some semblance of what he was feeling. "They're all dead."

Jean stared ahead of him. He could feel his entire body shuddering, but he couldn't stop it. He needed a bucket to puke into. He needed a reason to fade away, to obscure himself and all the things he had thought true to the world. He felt, truly, that the ground had shifted. That the sky was caving. He could taste death in his mouth, blood on his lips, on his fingers, in his eyes. He could feel it. He could taste it. He knew it like it was a melody, a sweet little dirge that betrayed his heart to the depths of his despair.

He wiped at his cheeks unsteadily, his voice trembling as he spoke.

"Marco Bodt," he whispered, "is dead too."

Historia had a look on her face, like a sad little lost angel who wanted very desperately to go home. She stared at him, and her eyes held pity. "Jean…" she said softly. "I'm…"

Jean shook his head. "Please, Historia," he said, clamping his hands over his eyes and scrubbing. "Don't."

Connie looked a little disturbed. He stood, his arm in a sling, and he looked severely uncomfortable with the entire situation. The American boy turned to Historia, his eyes wide, and Jean decided he just wanted the stranger to leave. Remembering everything right now was too painful. He could feel Marco's bones. He could see green eyes glittering in the miasma, determination fighting all common sense.

Jean dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Is…" He choked on his own tongue. "Is there any way… to retrieve his b-body, or…?"

"No," Historia said softly. "Bodies… left in the trenches will likely be… be buried in a pauper's grave. I'm sorry…"

Jean shook his head. He couldn't say anything in response to that. So instead he sat, shuddering in his grief, and he wondered how Levi wasn't the same. Jean had known his squadron of sharpshooters. He'd had dinner with them every night, smoked with them, exchanged information for when the war was over. He had known that Petra was a girl, just as he'd known Annie was a girl, and the rest of the regiment knew too. It just didn't matter to any of them, because why should it?

"I'm really sorry," Connie said suddenly. Jean looked at him with wide eyes. "I… I know we couldn't have done anything for your friend. Sasha didn't even recognize him— shit, sorry!" Connie cringed at the expression on Jean's face. "I just mean, it was between you and a corpse. I'm so sorry, but that… that was the reality of it." Connie looked suddenly wide eyed and small. Like a child flung into a game of chess, and he could not comprehend the pieces in the play, nor the difference between a pawn and a king.

"Yeah," Jean murmured. "Right. Reality. I get it."

Connie looked horrified, and he turned to Historia helplessly. But no one could speak. Or breathe. It was as though they were all locked in some terrifying nightmare, frozen in a moment of anguish, and could not break free. Jean rubbed his face tiredly, blinking around him and feeling the pitted emptiness of grief swallow him up.

"That leaves…" Historia's voice was small, and wavering. "Anton Leonhardt. Do… do either of you…?"

Jean shook his head. He had no will to speak. He didn't know what to say anyway. He hadn't seen Annie in a while… so he could not speak for her location. Historia slumped and looked away, hugging her clipboard to her chest.

"Oh," she said. She closed her eyes, and then turned to Connie. "I have to change bandages right now, so… um, if you don't want to—"

There was a soft groan from the bed beside Jean's. They all looked at the boy, who was twisting in his blankets, fumbling at the bandages covering his eyes. Historia cried out and rushed to his side, grabbing his wrists to keep him from peeling away the bandage.

"No!" cried Historia. "Stop that! You'll hurt yourself!"

The boy spoke, saying something garbled and sharp, his words staccato and harsh. He thrashed against Historia's tiny arms, suddenly very awake and very angry. His voice pealed against the air as he screamed his words, furious and terrified, his voice breaking and morphing into a soft, disbelieving cry. Jean's eyes widened. He knew those words. And that voice.

"_Geh sterben_," Jean said softly. The boy stopped screaming upon hearing his words spoken back to him. His head twisted in Jean's direction, and the boy's mouth opened pitifully, dehydrated lips parting in desperation.

"Armin?" the boy uttered. He looked confused, his lips twisting in despair, and his arm broke free of Historia's grasp, reaching out blindly. "_Wo bist du_, Armin?"

Jean stared at the boy, his eyes growing wide. "Historia," Jean said vacantly. "I know who this is."

Historia looked at him. He could tell by her eyes that she knew too.

"We saved a German," Connie breathed, looking a stunned. "Shit! Wait, who is he?"

"Eren Jaeger," Jean said. The boy turned, his body twisting at the sound of his name. "We… we met him three years ago. In Ypres."

"In 1914," Historia said gently, grasping Eren's hands and trying desperately to soothe him, "we all met during a truce for Christmas in Ypres. There we befriended a lot of very good people. And a lot of those people were Germans."

"Hey, Eren," Jean called. "It's Jean. Do you remember me…? _Saukerl_, aye? You… you remember, you _salaud_?"

Eren made a choking noise, like a snort and a sob. "Fuck you," he rasped. "Oh, _gott_, fuck you…"

Jean closed his eyes, feeling an empty smile rise to his lips. "That is a yes," he told Historia. In the back of his mind, green eyes glittered madly, determination glowing in the foggy chaos, and words blew into Jean's ears like a thunder clap. _Play dead_. And a gas mask slid over Jean's face, secured fast and efficiently, more than likely saving his life. Jean's eyes snapped up, and he bolted upright. Historia gave a shout, reprimanding him immediately.

"_Oh mon dieu_," Jean choked, his eyes very slowly trailing to Eren's face. "Connie… Connie, did Eren… did Eren have a mask on when you found him?"

Connie looked inquisitive, and he shook his head. Jean felt his stomach turn to ice. "No," Connie said. "He got caught in another blast, I think. There was a new round just before me and Sasha got there, and it was real bad, like we could feel it through our clothes and masks, and we wanted to get out of there real quick, but the poor guy was wailin'—"

Eren made a derisive nose, and he clawed at his sheets, looking rather pitiful and confused. "Where am I?" he asked, his accent thickening over his words. Jean barely understood it, hearing "_Ver ahm ich_?"

"A hospital, Eren," Historia said kindly. "Please don't fuss. You'll be okay—"

"Armin," Eren said, sitting up. Historia grabbed him by the shoulders, telling him in a loud, stern voice, "No. No, no, no!" But Eren had none of it, and he fought against her tiny arms. "Mikasa. Where? Tell me. _Ich brauche sie_. You understand, _ja_? I need them_. Gott, ich brauche sie_—" Eren let out a scream of fury and terror and agony, his arms shooting out wildly, blindly, his lips trembling as he recovered from his outburst. "Please, _ich brauche sie, ich brauche sie, ich brauche sie_!"

Jean didn't know what to do. He was still reeling from the revelation that Marco was gone, still unable to accept the reality of it, and here Eren Jaeger was flipping his ever loving shit. And Jean couldn't even blame him. Jean wanted to do the same. He wanted to scream and thrash and shout for his fallen friends, but he couldn't. He was too shocked. He felt too empty and too broken to react so violently.

"Eren," Jean said quietly. "Stop."

If Eren heard him, he ignored him. He began to feel around his face for his bandages, and Historia made a desperate noise of objection as Eren tried to tear them off. "No!" Historia cried. "Stop, you're going to hurt yourself!"

"I can't—" Eren sounded so pitifully small, and yet his voice echoed in the room. "I can't see_, fick— fickdich_— Where? Where are they? I need— _ich brauche— ich __**brauche**_—!" Eren broke into a sob, gasping and shuddering, unable to unwind the bandages from his eyes and fumbling instead at his hair, grappling at brown strands and tugging angrily. Historia had stumbled back in alarm, and Jean could see her forearms, where she had rolled up her sleeves, and there were red scratches glowing against her skin where Eren had clawed at her. Eren was curling into himself, his shoulders trembling as his sobs rattled against the vacancy of the room. His tears were moistening his bandage. Historia tentatively moved closer to him, catching his arms. That didn't stop him from digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, and then screeching in a furious agony, his back arching in pain as he flung his head back.

"Stop!" Historia shrieked. "O-oh, God, oh, God! Ymir!" Historia gripped Eren's arms, and she twisted her head toward the door. "Ymir! I need a sedative!"

"_Nein_!" Eren snarled, twisting and trembling, "_Nein, nein, nein, nein_! _Ich brauche sie, ich brauche sie, bitte, gott, nicht nimmst sie_!"

"Eren," Jean gasped, lurching forward, but his legs would not allow him to move. They jerked feebly, but he knew he wouldn't be able to stand. "Oh, fuck, what is wrong with him?"

"Are all Germans this crazy?" Connie asked feebly. Jean looked up at him, and shook his head.

"No, this—" Jean's eyes widened as Historia climbed on top of Eren's bed, fighting his flailing limbs, and she pinned his shoulders down with her hand and one knee, using her free hand to yank off her red cross arm band and use it to tie one of Eren's flailing wrists to the metal headboard of his cot.

"No!" Historia reprimanded. Eren was still fighting, but not Historia directly. He seemed to have drifted into a fever dream, but still be half awake. "_Nein_! You hear me? Stop that! _H__ö__r auf damit_, Eren!"

Eren's struggles halted, and Jean listened to the boy's labored breaths as little sobs escaped his lips. Ymir rushed into the room clutching a cup. Historia reached for it with her free hand, and Ymir glanced around the room, looking amused at the sight. Historia slipped off Eren, still pinning down his unrestrained arm, and she pressed the cup to his lips, cradling his head up.

"_Austrinken_," Historia murmured. Eren was very quiet as he acquiesced. Perhaps he had thrashed all the strength out of himself.

"What is that?" Jean and Connie asked in unison.

"Valerian root," Ymir said. Jean and Connie glanced at each other, and Jean could assume from that that they both had no idea what the fuck that was.

Historia untied her armband as the sedative took effect, and she smoothed back Eren's hair and smiled. "There. _Sich ausruhen_, Eren."

Eren gave a strange, sad moan. "Mm…" He rolled onto his side, and he mumbled, "_Gute nacht, mama_…"

The entire room went chillingly quiet. Jean sat in his cot, feeling unbearable pity toward Eren Jaeger. _Is this my fault?_ Jean wondered, nausea creeping inside his stomach. _I'm the reason why he can't see, right? Because I had his mask. He gave me his fucking mask_. Jean didn't understand. How could anyone be so stupid? How could fucking Eren Jaeger, a stranger by all means, save him from who knew what? _He covered me with Marco's corpse_, Jean recalled, _so that any other Germans passing by would just see two corpses— but one checked, and stabbed me with a bayonet_. He didn't remember that part. But it had to have happened.

"So," Ymir said, throwing one arm around Historia's shoulders. "What now, _mama_?"

Historia bristled at the word, and she shrugged Ymir off, pinning her armband back to her bicep. "Get more gauze," Historia ordered, whirling around and grasping a bag of medical tools she had likely brought in earlier. She pulled out a pair of scissors, and Jean turned away as he listened to the steady snipping of the bandages being cut from Eren's eyes. "Also, please check on Erwin Smith. Does he still have a fever?"

"Eh…" Ymir grimaced, and maneuvered around the beds. "Dunno."

"Okay, please check," Historia said. "Oh, and gauze, don't forget gauze!"

"_Si, si_. I know."

"So…" Connie said, backing away slowly. "I guess I should go. Uh, I'm glad you're okay, and shit. Jean, right?"

"Yeah," Jean said. "Thank you… Connie." He felt empty as he spoke. "Thank you."

"Don't sweat it," Connie said. He shifted uncomfortably, and he smiled weakly. "Sorry about… about your regiment."

Jean nodded. He couldn't say anything. He had a knotted feeling inside his stomach, and it would not go away no matter how hard he tried to think of something else. He was plagued by ghosts. Laughter and smoke blew about his face, and he could taste it all like a milky wine filling his mouth, and then turning sour upon his tongue. He wanted to scream, to lose his senses like Eren Jaeger had, to begin to cry and thrash until he needed to be sedated. But Jean had no strength to fight his despair, and his emotions crippled him.

"Happy Christmas," Jean croaked suddenly, bolting upright as Connie turned to leave. Connie blinked, and he looked back.

"Huh?" He rested his back against the doorframe, and gave a strange little laugh. "Oh, damn. Yeah, Merry Christmas!"

* * *

Ha ha, everything's depressing. Sorry about that. Merry Christmas, Angie!


	5. Paris, 1941

**PARIS, 1941**

The residents of the _L__é__gion_ had grown fewer over the years. They had all done their travelling, grown apart and clung together, but now they were dwindling. Jean's last letter to Armin Arlert had been over a year ago. Now, with America in the war, Jean was thinking about sending him one. But Jean was aware that he needed to be careful what he sent, and where. There were always eyes watching, and he could feel them at his back, waiting for him to stumble.

"Historia wishes us a Happy Christmas," Sasha called to them, resting the card they had received in the mail on the mantle of the fireplace. Connie blinked, looking up from his game of solitaire. The bar no longer opened on Christmas, because no one came. The liveliness of the twenties had melted away fast, and now people only drank to drink their stress and fear away. Jean was one of those people.

"Oh, man," Connie said. "I hope she's okay."

"I'm sure she's fine," Hange laughed, resting a piece of cake down on Connie's table. Hange and Jean made the cakes for birthdays now, since Historia was gone. Eren and Armin had known had to cook and bake as well, but they had left well before Historia and Ymir. Jean had traveled a bit with them, travelling to Italy and Greece and Spain. Once they had all even met up in Brooklyn at Connie's childhood home. Now Jean didn't know, though. He felt sad, and a little vacant. Like half of him was missing.

"Yeah," Sasha chirped, grabbing her own slice of cake eagerly. "Who would hurt a nun, anyways?"

"I still can't believe it," Jean said, staring into his glass. "A fucking nun!"

"Next time we see her," Connie said, "will we have to call her _Sister_ Historia?"

"Well, what else would we call her?" Sasha asked.

"Uh," Connie said, "Historia?"

"Do you think her father ever looked for her?" Jean wondered out loud. He was sitting at the bar, feeling glum and distant. He was better than Levi, though. Levi was sitting beside the Christmas tree, his bad leg laid flat and his good knee propped up. He was writing something against it.

"My father never came looking for me," Sasha said quietly. "And he ain't a Lord of England."

"Obviously Historia doesn't care what her father thinks," Hange said, grinning as she rested a slice of cake beside Levi. He did not look up at her, nor did he falter in his writing. He did, however, jerk his chin in acknowledgement. "And she shouldn't! Papa Reiss sounds like a terrible person!"

"Right," Jean said. "He's fucking terrible. Is he even still alive?"

"Great question!" Hange rested her back against the bar, and she shrugged. Her age was beginning to show in her face, lines framing her mouth from smiling too much, and wrinkles gathering at the edge of her eyes for a similar reason. Her matted brown hair was shot through with a streak of silver. But hey, Jean's hair was completely gray, and he was certain he looked much older than her because of it.

A sharp, startling sound of a note being struck made Jean jump. He looked over at the piano, which had been sitting untouched for years, and he saw Sasha standing over it, idly running her fingers across the ivory keys. She looked up, and she smiled sadly.

"I miss Eren," she admitted. Jean saw that her cake was sitting unfinished on the lid of the grand piano, and that worried him. Something was obviously troubling her. "He always played such pretty songs."

"Yeah…" Connie agreed, picking at his own cake. "So did Historia."

"We can invite them back here," Jean suggested, "when the war's over."

"Yeah!" Sasha's eyes brightened. "We can all hang out here just like we used to, and Eren can play his songs, and Armin can tell his stories, and we can eat all of Historia's delicious cooking, and—" She broke off, her grin melting from her face. She stood, one finger against a piano key, and she blanched. "_Oh mon dieu_…"

"What?" Jean asked, jumping off his stool. "What's up?"

She looked at him, and there was terror gleaming in her large brown eyes. "Jean," she whispered, pulling her hands close to her chest, and taking a step back. "There's someone coming to the door."

"What?" Jean repeated, whirling around to look at the front door. He did indeed see a shadow stirring against the light of the streetlamp. "So…?"

"So," Sasha said, her entire body shaking. "I've got a bad feeling, Jean. A really bad feeling."

Levi looked up at that. There was a knock at the door. They all stood for a moment, stunned. Then Hange hurried to the window, pulling back the curtain ever so slightly. Levi jumped to his feet, backing away from the door warily, his eyes darting around the room. He looked down at the paper in his hands, and he went to the bar to continue writing.

"_Merde_!" Hange hissed, flinging herself from the window and nearly toppling over herself. She stared at the door in horror as another knock rung through the air. The fireplace crackled, spitting flame and smoke. Jean sunk further into the room, reaching out and grasping Sasha's hand. He knew before Hange even said it. "Gestapo."

"Oh," Connie said, his voice thin. "Oh, hell. Oh fuck, oh…"

Jean could feel Sasha shaking. He could feel her terror as they all realized what this meant for them. They'd been caught. They were now compromised. The Legion of Scouts could not be a haven any longer, nor a crossroads. They needed to cut ties, and fast.

"What are we going to do?" Sasha whispered, her eyes flickering fast. "Guys?"

Jean thought, in that moment, he understood why Annie had taken that pill. Because the terror, the anxiety, the uncertainty of what was to come. It was hell. Torture. They would be forced to name names. They would be sent to god knew where, interrogated for who knew how long, tortured maybe, and then likely executed. _Annie had been a coward_, Jean thought numbly. _But I'm not. I won't be_.

"Connie," Jean said, taking a step forward as the man at the door began to pound at the wood with his fist. "Go upstairs. You're the quickest. You need to give the heads up that the _L__é__gion_ isn't safe. That we've been compromised."

Connie looked at Jean, and Jean could see the young American soldier there, the boy who had carried Jean from Belgium to France, and thought nothing of it. And Jean saw him nod, fear glistening inside his eyes as he ran, bolting up the stairs without a sound. Jean moved to the door, and he shakily pressed his hand to the knob. He looked back at Hange. She nodded, biting at the skin of her thumb anxiously.

Jean opened the door, and peered out into the chilly December night. The officer looked at Jean, his expression irritated, but solemn. His eyes were like glass, and they stared through Jean, looking into his very soul and judging him with malice. Jean stared at the man, his mouth falling open. He was losing some of his confidence. _Hurry up, Connie_, Jean thought. He felt nauseous.

Jean supposed they were lucky that they weren't hiding any Special Operative Executive agents at the moment. Well, unless they were counted as SOE. And by all means, Connie, Sasha, and Levi had been through the training. Jean and Hange had decided to play it on the backlines, considering they were needed at the bar in order for everyone's appearances to be in shape. They did their own parts to contribute to the Resistance, though.

All that was over now. They'd been caught. Somehow.

"Officer," Jean said slowly, confusedly. _Innocent until proven_, he reminded himself. "_Joyeux No__ë__l_. Can I help you?"

"You took your jolly time answering," the man said gruffly. He stepped up, standing in the doorway and peering into the bar. "Doesn't look like you're having any party. Why did you hesitate?"

Jean smiled. He felt sweat building at the base of his neck. "Well, it's Christmas, officer," Jean said. _Natural_, he reminded himself. _Just act natural_. "If I had known who was outside my door, I probably wouldn't have been such a prick about answering."

The man quirked an eyebrow. He nodded vaguely, and he peered inside. "You're Jean Kirschtein, I assume?"

"_Oui_," Jean said, grimacing as he was shoved aside. The officer brushed past him, and slammed the door shut. He looked around, and there was no trace of emotion to be found in his callous face. "I own this bar. It's my responsibility." Jean knew it was crazy, but maybe if he could shift the blame of the situation onto himself…

"Very festive," said the officer, staring at the Christmas tree in the corner.

"We try our best," Hange said, her cheeriness causing the atmosphere to fizzle out.

The officer nodded. He looked once more around the room, his eyes sweeping the place, before finally his eyes stopped. They froze upon Levi's face.

The man was staring back. He had finished whatever he had been writing, and now he stood at the bar with a look in his eyes that Jean could not explain nor fathom. Levi looked very suddenly like a man being told the date of his execution. His lips were pressed thinly together, and his eyes were hard and daring. Jean looked between the officer and Levi, not understanding.

"You are Levi, I presume," the officer spat.

Jean's eyes widened. _No_, he thought numbly. He understood. He understood what was going on as Levi pulled a silver lighter from his pocket, resting on the bar, and glancing at Jean. Jean had known Levi for twenty seven years. He could see the look in his eyes. He could read the man's thoughts as he pressed the lighter to the countertop. _Might as well give this back. They'll take it away from me anyway_.

He looked back to the officer and said, "Can I at least go get my coat?"

"No," Jean said aloud. He couldn't help it. "No way."

The officer looked at Jean, and Jean could sense the warning there. It was a sharp glare that rebuked Jean's words. The officer looked back at Levi. "Go ahead. Get your coat, you swine."

Levi stared at the man vacantly. Jean could see a muscle in his jaw jump, and he pushed off the bar, whirling around and marching toward the stairs. His limp was only noticeable to anyone looking for it. Jean felt sick. They hadn't been caught at all. It was just the inevitable outcome of Levi's birth. Jean looked at Hange, whose face had become something like a mask. There was bewilderment in her eyes. Shock. Confusion. Disbelief.

"There has to be a way to—"

"Hold your tongue," the officer said sharply, rounding on Jean. "Or so help me, this place won't be standing by the end of the week."

Jean couldn't speak. Oh. This was really happening. There was no stopping it. They were stuck, and left to stare vacantly at the nameless officer who had come to take Levi away. What the hell could they do? They were powerless in this situation. Utterly powerless. _If Armin was here he could talk Levi out of this circumstance_, Jean thought. But Armin wasn't there. And Jean was growing terrified.

"I'm…" Jean took a step back, his eyes darting between Hange and Sasha. "I'm going to… to help him with his coat…" He spun around and walked to the stairs very slowly, every step a labor. Before the man could object, Hange asked him if he wanted a drink. Her voice was very tightly cheerful. It chilled Jean to the bone. I _wonder_, Jean thought, sickened, _if he'll be alive by the end of the week_.

On the last step, Jean nearly ran into Levi. He was buttoning up his jacket, a fedora between his teeth. Jean grabbed him by both arms and dragged him down the darkened hall, pushing him into an open door. It was too dark to see Levi's expression, but Jean could hear his breaths. Shallow, rattling. Levi was scared. The whites of his eyes glowed in the darkness.

"Let go," Levi said, pulling his hat from his mouth. "He'll come up here, you moron. Then you all will be fucked."

"No," Jean said. "I can't. You're not going anywhere."

Levi sighed. "Kirschtein—"

"No!" Jean shook the man, feeling desperation clutch his heart and snap his spine. "_Dieu_, no! There has to be another way. You can still escape. Come on, you can't just give up like this, we've got to do something— the window, come on, you can make it down the fire escape—"

"Jean," Levi said, grabbing both of Jean's wrists and squeezing. "Running is pointless. They'll catch me. And they'll arrest all of you for helping me. Don't you get it? There's no escape from this!"

Jean gritted his teeth, and twisted his head back toward the door. His heart was pounding hard against his ribs, and he was overwhelmed with horror at the situation at hand. He was horrified because they were losing Levi. A chunk of home was being torn away. Jean had never imagined, not in a million years that his commanding officer in the Great War would return to his life simply because he had nothing better to do. And then become one of the most valuable friends Jean had ever had. Because Levi was still here. He hadn't left. He could have years ago, but he hadn't, and that amazed Jean.

"You're just going to lay down and take it?" Jean hissed, his eyes widening in shock. "That's not the Levi I know!"

"Keep your voice down," Levi growled. He looked around, his eyes darting and the dark, and he sighed. He sounded exasperated, and defeated. "Jean, I'm old. I'm old, and I'm fucking tired. The last thing I need right now is for you to cause me more grief. Let me go, I'll be fine."

"You liar," Jean whispered. He looked at Levi, and he didn't see an old man. He had the face of a child. He just never aged, and it showed in his youthful features. His hair hadn't turned gray, and the only hint of his true age were his frown lines, and the ancient shadows under his eyes. "You dirty fucking liar. You think they won't work you till your dead because you're old and tired, huh?"

"Oh," Levi said. "No. I'm counting on it."

"Are you _crazy_?"

"This was coming," Levi shot back. "We all knew it was. We've been avoiding it, ignoring the papers and the headlines about the roundups, pretending that it wouldn't come to this. I've been running my whole goddamn life, and I know I can't run anymore, so fuck it. I'm going to look Death in the face." Levi pushed Jean backwards, and Jean felt his spine collide with a wall.

"You call me an idiot," Jean coughed, clutching his ribs. He glanced at the doorway, and took a deep breath. "You're reckless. You're just like— you're like Eren, and— and you're so stupid. We can still fix this!"

"Jean," Levi said, placing the hat on his head. "Calm your ass down. And for fuck's sake, don't worry about me. I'm more than capable of coping."

"How would you feel if it was one of us getting rounded up, huh?" Jean was angry, but also desperate. He could hear someone at the foot of the stairs, and his heart felt as though it was about to burst from terror. "If it was me, or Hange, or— or anyone, really— you'd tear the fucker's throat out, and you know it."

Levi shook his head. He was at the door, his back pressed to the frame and looking like a child instead of the old man he claimed to be. He was shaking, and Jean could see it. It wasn't a senseless sacrifice by any means— Jean knew that Levi going quietly would ensure the survival of the _L__é__gion_, and thus their Resistance. Jean was close to sobbing as he grabbed Levi's arm, and clutched it tightly.

"I'm so sorry," he choked out.

Levi shrugged him off. But he nodded in acknowledgement, stepping in the hall. He seemed to struggle for words, his mouth parting and closing. He moved forward, and murmured, "Thank you."

Jean stood there, frozen in fear as Levi marched up to the officer. The man looked at Levi, and in the darkness of the hall he looked like a beast, his silhouette devouring Levi's.

"What the hell were you doing?" the man snarled.

"Taking a piss," Levi said, brushing past the man. "And saying goodbye. Is that so wrong? Or do you like to forget that people like me are still human?"

Jean swallowed a cry of shock when he saw the man's arm shoot out, and his fist collided with the side of Levi's head as he turned at the last second, clearly seeing the blow coming. Jean ran to the stairwell as the sound of a body colliding with multiple steps echoed in the empty hall. Jean grabbed the officer, fisting the front of the man's uniform and giving a wordless shriek of rage.

The officer shoved Jean off him, and then promptly backhanded him. Jean stumbled backwards, his body pressing up against a closed door. His blood was rushing in his ears, and he couldn't see anything. Terror and rage fueled his actions and his thoughts, and he found himself consumed by the various ways they could dispose of this man's body. Killing him would be easy. Getting away with it, though…

"One more misstep, Kirschtein," the officer whispered. His voice was almost soft against the darkness. "One more, and I'm taking you all in."

"You're only one man," Jean breathed. His breath rattled against the silence. He was tired, and scared, and beyond enraged.

"Look around you!" the officer snapped. "This building, this city, this country, this _continent_! There is no safe place for you to run, Kirschtein! Do yourself a goddamn favor, and let the Jew go!"

Jean stared in shock as the officer whirled away, leaving Jean pinned to the door and marching down the stairs. Because the man wasn't after Jean. It was Levi the man wanted, and Levi was his only concern. Jean saw Connie open his door cautiously, poking his head out into the hall. Jean glared at him, and mouthed, "Get the fuck back in there!" He shooed the man with his hands, and Connie reluctantly retreated back into his room.

Jean moved cautiously down the stairs. He began to hear struggling, and then he bolted. He rushed down the steps, and jumped the last two, sliding into the bar with a wild look in his eyes. He looked around, and saw the officer had Sasha's wrist clutched in his fist. Levi was up, leaning against the bar for support and looking almost stunned. As if he had not expected anything like this to happen. Hange had a knife in her hand, and she had her usual enthusiastic smile on as she took a step forward. Jean mentally egged her on.

_Kill him_, Jean thought desperately. _Do it, please, then we can save Levi_.

He didn't even think about the consequences. They didn't matter anymore. All that mattered was saving Levi from this man, from this terror and uncertainty that came with being rounded up. Where would they take him? Was it possible that they might be able to break him out? Perhaps they'd be able to save him a different way. There had to be some way. They were soldiers. They could do this.

Levi grasped Hange's wrist. He looked up at her, and she stared ahead as he gave his head a little shake. He pried the knife from her fingers, and set it down on the countertop. Jean watched as though peering in through foggy glass. These people… these wonderful people, who were his family longer than his mother had been… This was the fate they had resigned themselves to. Saying goodbye without knowing if it was the last, not knowing where they were going or if they'd be safe. If Jean had known five years ago that when he had said goodbye to Ymir, who was going to Barcelona to live with Historia for a little while, it would be their last goodbye, Jean would have said it differently. He would have told the woman that she wasn't as callous as she pretended to be, and Jean loved her for being a sister and a cigarette friend, even if she claimed to have no attachment to any of them other than Historia. Jean would have hugged her instead of waving her off irritably, and he would have apologized for never reaching out more.

Jean had never gotten to say goodbye to Marco. He was the only one. He had said goodbye to his mother when he had went to war, but he had not realized it would be her not returning at the end of the line. He had said goodbye to her as if it was his last, and he was thankful for that memory at least. But Marco had been ripped from Jean so suddenly, it was startling to think that they hadn't known each other long at all. Jean had known Eren for years, and he still claimed to hate him, even though he knew it wasn't true. Jean could not remember the last conversation he had had with Eren Jaeger. Jean couldn't even remember what he looked like, honestly. The face that came to mind was a boy of fifteen with eyes like green fire, glaring through the darkness of a brisk Christmas Eve, and burying a man with raw fingers. Jean had never really seen Eren as a man, but more like an impudent child. What if Eren was dead? It wasn't like Jean got letters from him. Armin hadn't even written in a year, so Eren certainly wouldn't. And yet, Jean could not remember their last goodbye. It had to have been years ago… before Ymir and Historia left…

Levi's goodbye was unspoken. It was the ginger way he held Hange's fingers, and the gleam in his shadowy eyes as they passed over Jean's face. It was the lighter on the countertop, the unsteady step forward as he told the officer, who was rebuking Sasha as he'd rebuked Jean for helping a Jew, that enough was enough.

The officer grabbed Levi by the arm and shoved him toward the door. Jean stared. He had never seen anyone treat Levi so roughly. He had never seen Levi take any shit like this before. He had never seen Levi resign himself to this kind of humiliation, to be yanked like a dog on a chain. This was hell. This was hell all over again.

"No!" Sasha cried suddenly, lurching forward. There were tears in her eyes, and Jean knew that she was just as angry and scared as he was. That was why he caught her around the waist before her fists could collide with the officer's face, and he whipped her around as she thrashed. "No! This isn't fair! It's— it's his _birthday_, you monster—!"

"Sasha, quiet," Jean hissed. His senses had returned to him. They were in trouble. They were in so much fucking trouble. "Shut up, okay?"

She was harder to hold onto than he had thought she'd be, but he clutched her very tight, his arms slipping from her waist to beneath her underarms to lock her shoulders so she would stop clawing at his face. "Let him go!" Sasha shrieked. Jean was shaking very badly, and he listened to Levi at the door.

"You know, when I was a soldier," Levi said, "we did our fucking best to _avoid_ making women cry."

Jean and Sasha shrieked in unison as Levi was thrown out the door. He heard Levi's body crash into the snow outside, and Sasha completely changed her attitude. She and Jean both sunk to their knees as they got a perfect view through the wide open door of the officer's boot connecting to Levi's face just as the man attempted to pick himself up. He was glaring up at the officer, blood burning his pasty lips. And then Levi delivered a chillingly bloody grin.

"Is that the best you can fucking do?" he spat, blood freckling the undisturbed snow.

"_Oh mon Dieu_," Sasha murmured, suddenly clutching onto Jean for dear life. "He's trying to kill himself."

Hange was standing stock still, staring out the door with a mixture of fascination and apathy. She turned her face away, and stared at the knife Levi had torn from her grasp. Jean felt helpless as he listened to the strange and terrifying crunch of a boot smashing into Levi's body, and a whip had materialized in the officer's hand. That sound was even more grotesque, a ribbon of leather slicing through the air and landing with an earsplitting crack upon Levi's cheek.

The beating went on for a minute. Then two. Then three. Jean and Sasha were shaking, and Jean wondered which one of them would break down first and start sobbing. They were living under an unyielding spell, and stuck in a dizzy daze of confusion and horror. What the hell was wrong with the world? This was happening. This was real.

It took about eight minutes for the officer to calm down and stop attacking Levi. By that point, the entire room had grown chilly from the cold wafting through the open down. By that point, Levi needed to be yanked up by both arms, his face an unrecognizable blur of dark red and pallid white and bruised black. Levi's head twisted, lolled, and he stared at them with the kind of defiant gaze that didn't belong in that mangled face. The officer shoved Levi into the back of a car, tossing the hat that had fallen off back into the bar. He wiped the blood off his whip, and glanced at them.

He stepped onto the stoop of the building, and watched them with cold eyes as he reached for the doorknob, and very slowly closed the door.

They were quiet as they listened to the car start outside. They listened to snow spit against the roar of the tires, and they trembled as the sound faded fast. They listened for a while after that. They listened because they were scared, and they had no idea what else to do. Jean hugged Sasha, burying his face in her shoulder and praying for the first time in years. Sasha said nothing. She rubbed Jean's head, her fingers trembling, and Jean tried not to cry. But tears moistened his eyes anyway, and he found himself biting his tongue to keep himself from screaming angry words at nothing. He wasn't sure what would happen now.

Connie appeared at the foot of the steps, looking shaken and scared.

"What…?" Connie asked, looking between Jean and Sasha, embracing and shaking on the floor, to Hange, who was on her third shot of vodka. Sasha bolted upright at the sound of his voice, and she stared at him with glistening eyes. "What the hell just happened?"

Jean let go of Sasha to allow her to jump to her feet. He sat alone on the ground, staring at the wooden boards beneath him as Sasha ran to Connie and flung her arms around him, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. She buried her face in his shoulder, and gave a hasty, shaky, muffled recap of what had happened. Connie could only stand there, looking confused and horrified.

"Levi…" Connie swallowed uncertainly. "Levi's gone?"

There was nothing they could say. Jean stood up, and he walked to the front door, bending down to scoop up Levi's hat. It was a little damp from the snow, and there were spots of blood here and there. _Filthy_, Jean thought numbly_. Levi wouldn't even want it anymore. He'd just throw it out_. Jean wandered to the bar as Connie and Sasha sat on the steps, Sasha's head resting on his shoulder, and both their eyes clouded with grief. They hadn't said goodbye. It wasn't fair. _War keeps tearing my family away from me. Marco, and my mother, and Ymir, and now Levi too_.

Jean sat down, and he asked for a drink. Hange was more then happy to oblige, though her cheerful mask had melted away. She looked at him with glassy eyes, pouring his liquor before him, and then turning away. Jean sat for a few minutes, or maybe a few hours, staring ahead of him and sipping senselessly at his alcohol. He finally plucked up the courage to reach across the bar, and take Levi's lighter in his hand. It wasn't shiny anymore, and the engraving was a bit faded, but it still read, _Bury me upright, fucker_.

Jean felt hot tears on his cheeks. He had no strength to wipe them away. He tentatively reached for the paper Levi had been writing on, slipping it closer so he could read it. Levi's tiny, scrawled writing was stark against the white page. Jean realized fast what the paper was, and it was a stone dropping into his stomach. What the fuck was he supposed to do with this?

He could send Erwin Smith the letter, but then Erwin would send one back. And there would be no one to receive and reply. There was no point.

Jean couldn't bring himself to read the letter. He did, however, look at the last line written.

_Joyeux No__ë__l, vieil ami_.

* * *

_I'm almost done with the final chapter, next chapter (or at least I think I am). I definitely could do another one after that to provide more closure but like...? Yeah, no, I didn't finish on time, so next chapter is the last. It should be up... sometime. I won't make promises._

_Merry Christmas, Angie, you dumb bitch. Also sorry that all these chapters are hella depressing. (no i'm not)_


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